Flying on Christmas Eve afternoon was remarkably easy. I was afraid the airports would be chaotic, but nearly everyone must’ve already been where they were supposed to be. Even Chicago O’Hare, where I made my connection, was—if not quite subdued—somewhat less than manic. (I was awfully curious about the Christmas Eve service at the aiport chapel, but I didn’t have time to check it out. What would that have been like?)
I knew right away, by the way, that I’d found the gate for my flight to Tulsa. It was the only gate notable for cowboy hats, cowboy boots, and a country boy carrying a guitar.
Oddly enough, my only travel hiccup occurred in Philly. I was on the first of two commuter trains to the airport when, suddenly, the train just stopped. The train backed up about half of a mile, got on a different track, and tried again. We stopped in roughly the same place. After about 20 minutes, as the passengers grumbled, the conductor finally told us that the train system had lost power, inexplicably, throughout the city. We couldn’t get any closer than we already were…. After a few more minutes, about 20 passengers, including me, jumped off the train, climbed through an open space in a fence, and walked about three-quarters of a mile to a busy-ish street. I was absolutely relieved to find a cab to take me to the airport…. Thank heavens we were close enough to the city to do that. Otherwise, I might still be trying to get to Oklahoma (and my mother would not be amused).