We sat in San Antonio waiting for the plane to arrive.
We missed a connection in Chicago and scrambled to stay overnight.
The next morning, we saw all flights to Syracuse canceled and wrangled our way onto two separate flights to Buffalo instead.
George rented a car. We got on their earlier flight thanks to a sympathetic gate agent.
That flight took off hours after the announced time.
We arrived in upstate New York a day after we thought we would, with 150 miles of road ahead. My dear wife Karen and I knew our luggage was on a plane still in Chicago.
Ain’t air travel grand?