"Give me back my point of view; 'Cause I just can't think for you; I can hardly hear you say; What should I do? Well, you choose"

Like ball bearings in a pinball machine, the airplane bounces, lurches, and jerks. The real-life rollercoaster causes audible gasps and groans as its riders’ stomachs figuratively drop.

I offer my hand and the stranger across the aisle squeezes it. His grip fluctuates in rhythm to the aircraft’s movements. Tiny pulsations as the plane maintains its rightful place on the atmospheric highway, and a death grip as the metal tube hits a pothole in the sky.

I offer reassurance as his face contorts accordingly. His left hand grips the arm rest until his fingertips whiten. Our connection drops for mere seconds as a woman bounds down the aisle, her cheeks puff in the universal sign for impending vomit, possibly projectile. As we link again, we hear her retch. Loudly.

Minutes later, we land in Pittsburgh, two-hundred sixty-eight miles from our intended destination as a woman enthusiastically exclaims, “I never believed in Friday the thirteenth and its superstitions before, but …”

Unbeknownst to me, it’s just the first hiccup of a long journey home.

We exit the jet bridge in Steelers territory to chaos. Hundreds of like-minded passengers are detoured to a crowded terminal away from Ravens territory without a known way back. Officials inform us of only the low-level information: chemical smell in Baltimore/Washington, D.C. Four airports closed. No idea when/if they might reopen.

Crap.

I weigh options and investigate renting a car. It’s an eight-hour drive with three known construction zones. Hard pass. I look into a second flight back to Hartford that leaves in sixty minutes. It’s nearly triple the cost of my round-trip ticket, but assures me I’ll be home before a new day begins.

As I explore the option, it shows me the flight plan – through Baltimore.

Ugh.

Well, maybe a few questions will solve the conundrum.

I sashay past my hurried peers as they lose themselves in a supposed hamster wheel. They walk in circles between restrooms, restaurants, and gates trying to make sense of the madness. They hold their treasured belongings close to their chests and pull roller bags behind them. I listen to music via earbuds drowning out their angst and sob stories.

I reach an airline flight board. My eyes scan for “Hartford.” My forefinger follows the line and discovers immediate disappointment. The inevitable message is a single word in red lettering beside the departure information: Cancelled.

I trudge back to the gate that introduced me to the western Pennsylvania mania. Hope sinking and my cell phone battery dying, I wonder what lies ahead.