let’s take the scenic route

Tonight I am trapped in Sky Harbor International Airport. Indefinitely. Okay, not indefinitely. But it seems that way.

My flight arrived at 9 p.m., hours later than scheduled. The next flight to Portland is at 10:30 a.m. Right now, it is 3 in the morning. That means I am 6 hours into my 13 1/2-hour stay here in Phoenix, or 44.44%.

It all started in Houston, at George Bush Intercontinental Airport (which replaces Hudson News with the Fox News Channel Store, just so you know). Storms in New Orleans, a pilot maxed out on hours and then a storm in Houston kept us on the ground. Forever. All this after we had boarded the plane, of course. I thought we would become like that flight grounded in Minnesota overnight. Oh, and on Continental, no doubt.

They gave us free Direct TV. It quelled most of the riots brewing. While passengers were letting out their final cries of desperation and disgust to the flight attendants, I was laughing out loud at RV-racing on Top Gear and gasping at general insanity on House. I also watched Friends, inspiring the title of this blog.

We took off a few hours later.

The flight was “bumpy,” in pilot-speak, meaning we all saw a new shade of white on our knuckles and moved far beyond nervous laughter with our neighbors. My rowmate was from Long Island and therefore instantly abrasive. Also a pig. But even pigs can be good for white-knuckled camaraderie.

All they had for the in-flight meal were ham sandwiches. Ham sandwiches. That was the only thing they had. Chips. That was the only thing I had.

We circled Phoenix for an extra 30 minutes, an excellent target for the electric storm slamming the city.

I got off the plane ready to do battle. I had missed my connection to Portland by hours, and there were no more flights heading out. I wanted to sleep in a bed. Continental wanted me to die a painful death of cold boredom in Sky Harbor. They won.

Alright, fine. After complaining pathetically on the phone to Mike, I decided to make peace with the situation. My task: to entertain myself in an airport overnight with sleep likely being an impossibility. The trick was to focus entirely on each activity at hand, so all possible forms of mental stimulation could be spread out.

Buying a $7 Caesar salad. Stimulating. Walking to the bathroom. Stimulating. Pouring hazelnut creamer in my coffee. Stimulating. Reorganizing my bags. Stimulating.

I remembered that Lindsay never sleeps, so I called her. This, I’ve decided, is one of my favorite things about Lindsay. We talked forever, about everything, and it was good. Then I talked to Mike. We talked for slightly less than forever, about slightly less than everything, but it was still good.

Then I discovered the Internet.

It was around 2 a.m., and it changed my life. Within minutes, I was high on free wifi. I had a thousand tabs open, trying to suck up every part of the Internet at once. I didn’t want to waste a second of brain arousal. I looked for jobs, applied for jobs, stalked on Facebook, read the news, caught up on work e-mail, played music and read about “The Chasm Between the Value of Print and Web Readers.”

Around 3, the Internet died. I died a little, too. I also forced my body to sleep for two hours, in a nook under a water fountain in the deserted baggage claim area.

I woke up freezing and less at peace with my situation. On top of any kind of trouble, I cannot handle being cold. Cold is my threshold. Remembering I was in Phoenix, I walked outside. It’s 80-some degrees at 5:30 this morning.

And that’s where this story catches up with me. I’m sitting on a bench outside the airport, watching the sun rise. The line to check in at ticketing has at least 150 people moving at record slow speeds.

But that’s okay because my flight isn’t for another five hours.