This year, almost like every year, I decided to spend my summer vacation with my family far away from any tourist attractions at a place in the middle of nowhere.
Wednesday morning we were hurring in the usual manner, half an hour too late, to the airport, because my wife and my 16-year-old daughter spent half a day in the bathroom. What, in the world, are they doing there? Why does it take them so long? Why, above all, is that it takes them so long today even though they know we are late? I will never understand this. But enough of women's weird bathroom behavior now, this is not our theme today. No, our them today is travelling.
So now picture me driving like a maniac during rush hour to get to the airport half across the city with two teenagers on the backseat killing each other on time. I try to be patient and not to burst into tears or killing someone. I have been through this for several years now. But especially today where half of the nation is on the street, millions of white haired Sunday drivers are plugging the streets. Not getting made at those drivers is not one of my advanced social skills.
Only 60 seconds left until the departure of our plane we reached the airport and as usual they changed the departure gate. If that would be something new for me, they always change the departure gate, especially when you are late. So I went to the information, knowing before hand what the answer will be and not expecting anything different. .
"Gate two.” I don't know why, but that is what they always tell you.
"Where the Gate for the flight number 243648?” you ask.
"Where is the Concorde gate?”.
"Where can I find the Gate for the flight to Australia?”.
"Where is Gate seven?”.
Well, after standing in a painful slowly moving line, I got my information: "Gate two.”.
Ten minutes later, we found our departure gate, it was gate no. seven.
Finally after all we made our plane.