That time we missed our flight to Spain

The first trip I took Far Away was three years ago. I was so excited I made mum take me to the airport four hours ahead of departure. I was also slightly panicky about some last minute hitch and I figured four hours was plenty of time to forget and re-remember something, to take care of any last minute failures (I once dreamt of getting to the airport and realising I didn't have a passport).


Somehow though my punctuality and organisational skills have tapered off , leaving much to be desired. This latest trip was no exception. Despite the fact that Melissa and I were planning a birthday trip (to Ibiza no less), the thought of planning, researching and booking made me feel like taking a big nap. So Mel took care of the major details like booking flights and accommodation. Me? I took it upon myself to book airport transfers. It seemed like an easy enough task with little room for failure.


Boy was I wrong.


My first niggling feeling that I'd Fucked Up Big Time was when I told my boss that I'd booked an EasyJet bus to leave Baker Street at 3pm, to arrive at Stansted Airport at 4.20pm. (Ticket counter opened at 4pm, flight left at six.)


"You realise it's going to be a rainy Friday afternoon right? There'll be lots of traffic on the motorway," he said.


I looked at him indignantly. This was the man, who only weeks before, had missed a flight to Holland because he though it was fine to rock up to the check-in desk a mere 40 minutes before take-off.


"Yeah, they're also doing roadworks along that route," chimed in another colleague.


With this information in mind I decided we'd catch a different EasyJet bus- one that left 15 minutes earlier, and should get us to the airport at 4pm on the dot. That way, even if we were late, we should still be there by 4.30pm. Problem solved, I figured.


Well, we missed the bus. It seemed like 100 other panicky travellers had the same idea and so the earlier bus was packed before we'd even had a chance to queue. As Mel and I stood in the rain I cursed myself for not booking an earlier bus. As I had had work that morning booking anything earlier wasn't really an option. I cursed myself again for deciding to work right before a flight. Mel seemed nonchalant about the situation, reassuring me that EasyJet wouldn't have posted a 4.20pm ETA if the odds were completely against it. "We'll be fine," she said, over and over.


Our 3pm bus arrived early (thank god) but the driver seemed agitated. Something about traffic and accidents on the motorway. We all clambered aboard and buckled our seatbelts quickly, eager to get moving. Not long after we did , a middle aged Italian man in the front seat chided the bus driver. "Why are you taking this route? It would have been faster to go the other way. You know I took this exact same bus last week and I missed my flight because of you."


Mel and I gasped at this last sentence. It was akin to saying "bomb" on a plane.


The driver, even more agitated, explained that all routes were going to be slow at this time of day (bad) that this route while slow (bad), was the most direct and that if we had all allowed ourselves three hours before the flight he could guarantee we would get there on time (worse.)


The more traffic we encountered along the way (practically standstill) the more Mel and I tried to calculate exactly how late we would be and Plan B. We decided it was too late to get off the bus and get on a train. We calculated that once we got on the motorway it would probably take another 40 minutes (and the motorway was still another 40 minutes away). The latest we could arrive would be about 4.55pm and even then we would have to sprint for the check-in desk which was due to close at 5pm. The slower the traffic became and the harder the rain poured the more grim our Plan B became. We'll take another flight we decided, even if it doesn't leave until the next day. We began to laugh about our predicament as I mentally totalled up how much a last minute flight to Barcelona might cost.


4pm came and went and we weren't on the motorway. The Italian man scowled, shook his head impatiently, sighed loudly. Kate phoned. "There's a crazy man on the bus saying we're all going to miss our flights," I whispered into the phone as the crazy man in question eyed me suspiciously. "Oh yeah I heard the traffic was pretty bad," Kate said cheerfully.


The bus driver took to overtaking traffic in bus lanes (we weren't technically a bus, making the manouvre slightly illegal.) I couldn't decide if I should feel glad that the driver was pulling out all the stops to get us to the aiport as quickly as possible, or if I should be panicked that he felt the need.


"We'll laugh about this in Barcelona tonight," Mel said as we tightened our buckles.


4.30pm and the airport was nearly in our sights except we couldn't figure out if the signs were in miles or kilometres. One would be detrimental to our calculations.


4.45pm and we were in airport territory but we were tailing a Very Slow Driver who seemed oblivious to our plight.


4.50pm and we discussed tactics. We agreed as soon as the bus stopped we would run for our lives. First out the door, first to the luggage and run, run, run. "Don't stop running, even if you can't hear me behind you, just go," I encouraged, stopping short of dramatically saying, "Save yourself."


At 4.52 we unbuckled our seatbelts as we careened through a roundabout, sitting on the edge of our seats, ready to bolt out the door.


4.55pm and we were out of our seats before the bus had stopped.


"Excuse me, we're running late," we shouted haphazardly as we threw everybody's luggage out of the boot and onto the ground as we searched desperately for our bags. Mel found hers first.


"Run! Run! I'm right behind you!" I screeched like a mad woman as I threw little jazzy to the ground and snapped up the handle.


Embarassingly we ran in a complete circle screaming while onlookers stared because we couldn't find the gate out of the carpark.


Once we did, we were off. As I had anticipated Mel was a much faster runner than I, even though she had a 20 kilo backpack attached to her, making her sprint resemble that of a sumo wrestler (and still a faster runner than I.)


On we forged, me overcome with giggles at Mel's gait and at one point apologising to a woman whose foot I ran over with jazzy. (Okay that's a lie, I didn't have time to apologise.)


At the top of the escalator (which I ran up with jazzy lifted over my shoulders) I realised for a frightening second that I had lost Mel despite my encouragement of her to run on. I stopped, looking around in circles for Mel and her giant backpack bobbing furiously. No sign. I couldn't see a departures board either to direct me towards the check-in desk.


Game over, I realised sadly, panting for breath.


Then I spotted her, Melissa waving furiously from a queue slightly to my left. The EasyJet check-in desk. We had made it. We high-fived. And we laughed about it in Barcelona that night too.