On Standby

I was having a pretty busy Thursday when, in between meetings, I saw an unfamiliar 5 digit number come across my phone. My evening flight had been cancelled. The airline was very sorry. Would I like to see other options?

Nothing springs you awake faster than the competition of securing an airline seat and, because a couple hours had passed since the initial message, I was solidly losing. 

I was planning to take a lunch break after this next call. To heat up some leftovers and make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for the airport. To throw some things in a bag and wrap up my day. To casually hop on the bus that takes me to the terminal. To fly home to Pittsburgh for the holiday weekend. 

Instead, I found myself staring at the rebooking options that would take me to the neighboring state of Pennsylvania by way of Georgia or Texas or another two days’ time. Or I could try standby for a flight that was leaving in an hour and a half.

In the span of 40 minutes, I Googled “how standby works,” packed a suitcase, took a work call, rescheduled another, inhaled some rice, hopped in a car (thanks to the glorious teamwork that is my partner), flew through security, talked to the information desk, texted my parents, and was seated at the gate. “I have so much adrenaline coursing through my body I feel like I just fought a bear,” I Slacked my colleague as I set up shop to work from the airport. 

I’ve never done standby before and I was managing my expectations. Sure, the woman at the information desk had told me that if nothing changed, I’d be the last seat, but it seemed like things were changing at every moment as I watched the time of my new flight’s supposed departure come and go. 

Then I saw a young woman with the same standby boarding pass as me. I felt my odds going down. 

As we approached the time my original flight would have left, they began to board. And they boarded and boarded until it was just the two of us and I, extrovert as ever, struck up a conversation. She was from Pittsburgh as well, headed home for the long weekend. We talked, at first, about our original flights and our backup plan options. Then we moved into talking about New York; she’d only been in the city a few months. 

In a funny way, I felt like talking to myself. She was only a couple years older than I was when I moved to New York in 2016. Her boyfriend was picking her up from the airport. She also grew up in the more rural side of Pittsburgh. As we talked about both cities, killing time and crossing our fingers, I realized that if it was going to only be one of us, I’d be really, really happy it was her. And when she was called first, I only felt happy that things were working out. 

After a handful of dreadfully suspenseful moments, the gate agent shrugged, smiled, and gave me the very last seat, just as the woman at the information desk had said. When I boarded, I was across the aisle from my new friend and we smiled and laughed, both giddy to get on what was basically the last option.

I settled in with my book and didn’t process how long we’d been taxiing on the tarmac. I loosely clocked some folks grumbling, but I was content. I was going to be sleeping in my childhood bedroom tonight and enjoying a relaxing weekend with family. 

The flight from New York City to Pittsburgh is deliciously short. By the time you hit cruising altitude, you’re basically rebuckling to land but so lost was I in my book, that this too escaped me. The captain came on the intercom to apologize. Pittsburgh was having very bad storms and he couldn’t land. We also didn’t have enough fuel to keep circling. He was taking us to Dulles to refuel and then we’d be back in the sky. 

There were more groans throughout the cabin and then a voice cut out loudly behind me, “Dulles??? Where the f*** is Dulles?!” Immediately, conversation erupted in the back of the plane where I sat. “D.C.? Why would D.C. be Dulles? Why are we going to Washington, D.C.?” All the crankiness from a day of delays was coming out in everyone around me. Everyone except me and my standby friend. 

When we got to Dulles and people began to move about, I stood up to use the restroom and she laughed, “we really wanted on this plane, right?” 

And we did. And even in that moment, I still did. Because I got to hear the people in the row behind me, a woman a little older than me and a woman a little older than my parents turn from strangers to friends. While the younger woman was in tears of frustration over back to back to back travel problems, the older woman patted her arm gently and told her that in the grand scheme of things, this was small. This was nothing. It was going to be just fine. Later, I heard them talking about the best time to settle down and start a family, a conversation my friends and I have played out a lot lately as women in our 30s. 

I’m glad I was on that plane because I got to hear the conversation in the row behind them. A family with an elementary school-aged son from New York who was visiting every Major League Baseball stadium and coming to Pittsburgh to see the Pirates. The woman from Pittsburgh told them all about PNC Park and gave them her favorite recommendations. The family was from a part of New York that the woman had never been to before. The suggestions soon went both ways.

On that plane, I got to chat to a businessman in front of me about the weather that had thrown us off course. He was looking at his weather app and I was relaying what my sister-in-law, who had just driven across Ohio to Pittsburgh with my brother, had told me about the weather on the ground. 

As we refueled, I felt this funny sense of community, even as I mostly read my book and listened. And I thought about how obviously frustrating it was. These passengers were supposed to leave at 4:00 PM. They would have landed in Pittsburgh just after 5:00 and maybe had dinner plans or seen family or friends or done something touristy. Instead it was 10:30 PM and they were in Washington, D.C., still not fully convinced they’d get to Pittsburgh at all. 

On the other hand, I had planned on flying and my flight had been cancelled. That was my frustration point. After that, everything was good news. Getting on the standby list? A win. Getting to the airport in time? A win. Getting on the flight—even if it was delayed and got me in much later than anticipated? A win. 

When we got off the plane, my standby friend and I exchanged numbers. If you ever need anything in the city or just want to talk about home, I told her. 

I called a car to my parents be that it was nearing midnight and my driver and I chatted the entire time. He talked about growing up in Uganda and asked if I’d ever been to Africa. I told him I’d gone to Kenya three years ago for work. In sharing a story about my time there, I referenced having crash coursed Swahili before I went and after my story, he wanted to know what I remembered. Not much, I told him but emboldened by his insistence and by the delirious kind of way one gets running on low sleep and low food, I spoke a little. I probably spoke more Swahili in that car than I did the entire week I was in Nairobi. 

We talked about my job and about community and about Pittsburgh. We talked about New York and visiting family and traveling in general. By the time he dropped me off, I felt like we were old friends.

In many ways, it looks like a “bad travel day.” But outside being a little tired and a lot hungry, things worked out just about as good as they could have. I made a friend. I bonded with a stranger. I can officially say I’ve done standby for a flight. 

The perspective was forced. I went from having a flight to having no flight to having a chance. That made it exciting. I was so grateful for the seat that I didn’t care how long it took. At the same time, I can imagine how frustrating that was for the other passengers who had seats and delays and were also probably a little tired and a lot hungry. 

But we wanted these seats, didn’t we? 

There are many times I am like the original plane passenger. Frustrated about something I assumed would be easy or simple or routine. Having the forced perspective of someone who didn’t think they’d be getting home that day and then finding out you were the last person to be given that opportunity makes you immediately grateful. 

But maybe this standby can stand as a reminder to be grateful for all of it. For the flights that go exactly as planned. For the ones that take a little extra time. For the ride shares we’re supposed to be in. For the friends we are supposed to make.