The guy next to me is telling everyone at the bar that he hasn't showered for three days, and a chorus responds, "Who has?" Another man interrupts to ask, "You know what DELTA stands for?" and before he can finish people start yelling, "Don't Even Leave the Airport!" A woman implores, "We gotta buy a drink for Rick! Rick missed his own damned bachelor party."
People are drunk the way you get drunk when you've been stuck somewhere for days. They are making unexpected friends the way you do at summer camp or in the army. I listen to a motley crew to my left share stories about unexpected jail time, failed business endeavors, foreign prostitutes, and estranged children: life stories that don't usually come out until around the third day of heavy bonding.
To my right I hear a man confess his undying love to a woman and watch her calmly explain to him that he is not in his right mind and should not leave his wife for her. After she leaves he drunkenly explains to me that he had just met her, in that very terminal, hours earlier.
If I had been in any kind of rush I would not have found the whole thing as amusing, but as disappointed as I was to be late to my sister's bachelorette party in Georgia, this was not a life or death matter. And its good to be able to distinguish between life's outrages, and its disappointments.
Once I arrived, just 24 hours late, and with only four girls missing due to the Delta-pocalypse, I had no further complaints.
Delta had just cancelled over 3,000 flights in 24-hours. Counter-service was shut-down, and the wait on the help line was over 13 hours long. The entire system was down. Flight attendants and pilots were stranded because they could not log in to tell Delta what city they were in or find out where their next flights were leaving from. It was such an absolute mess, with people missing weddings, funerals, job interviews, and grandchildren being born, that the atmosphere in the terminal was almost punch-drunk, buoyant. Whole terminals seemed to cheer with every flight that took off. And besides, counters were closed. There was no one to complain to.
In addition, the president had just sent 59 missiles to bomb Syria in an apparent response to a horrific chemical attack. And the 24-hour loop of airport CNN wouldn't let us forget it. So being stuck in an American airport for a few days seemed comically trivial.
It was like when I was a kid and a big storm would leave the neighborhood without electricity, with everyone huddled together in the one house that had a wood stove (which I remember, because it was ours). There was no one to be angry with. Just thankfulness that we were warm and together. And there was hot chocolate. Singing. Camaraderie. There would be time later to assess the damage.
Eighteen hours, three cancelled flights, and one completely unexpected long car-ride through rural Georgia later, I thought: I am part of some strange history now. I can't wait to tell people that I was part of the Delta-pocalypse. I'm sure it's been all over the news.
But... not a peep. I cannot find a single headline. Delta PR works miracles.
Arrived. April 8th, 2017. Georgia on my mind.