Planes and Pancakes

Was I tempting fate by insisting on getting home?

Everybody complains about flying. We all have stories about awful experiences. But what happened to me last week was epic. I was exhausted and frustrated, and then something changed my outlook.

I was trying to fly home from Washington DC to the Central Coast of California. I’d been traveling around the country moderating off-the-record gatherings of chief financial officers and general counsels at companies large and small, public and private. I do this several times a year as part of CFOFocus.org. I really enjoy it because CFOs and GCs are often the power behind the throne. I hear a lot of stuff that I can’t tell you about (it’s really good!), and I make enough money at these events to keep me out of trouble.

What should’ve been an eight-hour day was a 24-hour slog. Without going into all the details, because you don’t really care, suffice it to say that I tried to board four different aircraft, including one that sat on the tarmac for two and a half hours during a ground stop due to weather, only to return to the gate and deplane because some sort of “check engine” light came on. (The captain admitted, “This is kind of embarrassing.”) My first three attempted flights were on United Airlines, including the plane that had to turn back. United kept texting me apologies and sending me $15 vouchers to buy food (I bought Chick-fil-A), and the airline offered $200 towards a hotel in DC.

I was not going to stay in DC. I knew that if I spent the night, there would be some other snafu the next day preventing me from getting home.

So I, along with a handful of other determined passengers, raced to another terminal to catch an Alaska flight to San Francisco. We learned that the antiquated people movers at Dulles — which remind me of some sort of 1950s version of Star Wars — were not completely functioning. You couldn’t go from terminal to terminal, you had to go all the way back to the main terminal and start over.

I’m already giving you too many details. You get the picture.

Bottom line, I got on the Alaska flight and it departed after 9pm, more than 13 hours after my initial flight was scheduled to leave.

Our plane had a very bumpy ride over the middle of the country — you may have heard about the deadly tornadoes — but “Captain Monique” assured us that we would thread the needle through Ohio and soon have smooth sailing. She was right. I took a screen grab inflight of the radar.

By the time I landed in San Francisco, it was too late to get a connection home. But that wasn’t going to stop me. At midnight local time (3am body clock time), I went to the man running the Avis counter. He was surprisingly upbeat for such an hour, and I got myself a car to drive 240 miles south.

I realized this was insane. I was extremely tired after having been up so long. But I said a little prayer that I would get home safely and began the long ride home.

Being a woman of a certain age, I had already planned my bathroom stops. Could I make it to Salinas? Would I have to stop in Gilroy? Miraculously l made it all the way to King City before pulling over. That’s about 150 miles. It dawned on me that maybe I should also eat.

There happened to be a Denny’s in King City, a town with a population of 13,917… but seems smaller. I hadn’t been to Denny’s in years. But they’re “always open,” and you know exactly what you’re in for.

I parked and saw no other cars. It was 2:15am. No one was out and about. For a moment, I wondered if the restaurant was open. Even if it was, had I gone through all this hassle only to be murdered here? In King City? At Denny’s? Had God been trying to tell me all day not to travel?

Still, I needed to go to the bathroom, and that trumped my concerns. I walked in and was greeted by a young woman with a big smile who said, “Welcome to Denny’s!” I was her only customer. She had a broom in her hand. I looked around. The place was so clean you could perform surgery on the floor.

I sat down and the waitress handed me a menu. I told her I’d like pancakes, bacon and coffee. I noticed a young man finishing a snack at the counter. As soon as I gave my order, he pushed himself up, went into the kitchen, and whipped up the pancakes and bacon. I’m not exaggerating when I tell you the meal was absolutely delicious. You might think I was too fatigued to have standards in that moment, but I know a good buttermilk pancake when I taste one, no matter how bleary-eyed I am. I could eat another stack of his flapjacks right now just thinking about it.

As I ate, the young waitress and cook chatted about the local fair and how much money they were going to spend, and I suddenly felt like I’d walked into the pages of Charlotte‘s Web. They were Fern and Avery. Here I was feeling sorry for myself for having to spend the whole day traveling in a metal tube that somehow defied gravity and delivered me to the West Coast, having earned a lot more money than working the graveyard shift at Denny’s in King City. But these two had a much better attitude than I did. Of course, they’re young.

As I was leaving, a man walked in — another customer! “Welcome to Denny’s!” the waitress said brightly. “Well, thank you,” he replied. Sitting down at the counter, the man introduced himself to the cook and shook his hand. Really?

“What should I order?” the man asked me as I got up to leave. “Try the pancakes,” I said, walking out the door with a full belly, caffeine hitting the system, and feeling… happy? “They’re delicious.”