“My feet have wandered off without me; I haven't seen the pair of them for years; Do they know I went and left the country? When I call in the night do they hear?”

“Boston?” I ask, breathless. It sounds more like “AwwwwSTIN.”

“Excuse me? I can’t understand you,” she says, almost dismissing me, with an English and Indian accent. At half my height, she stands dressed in fitted black pants that clutch to her wide hips and a branded purple polo shirt that’s loose in the middle and tight when the untucked top reaches her thighs. Her dark hair is pulled back in a low ponytail and she refers to a cell phone. Behind her is an electronic board filled with arrival and departure information.

“Boh-stin,” I repeat, carefully enunciating the syllables with what little air I have in my lungs.

“Oh, that flight in another terminal, twenty minutes away, you’ll never make it in time.”

My other half demands the direction as she nonchalantly waves us away.

We dash in the path she pointed to an underground train that leads to a shuttle bus, up an escalator, and maneuvering through throngs of people. My large green backpack bounces to a defiant rhythm with each step I take. I absentmindedly slow down when the two layers of leggings, oversized blanket sweatshirt, and snow boots becomes too much.

“Miss! Miss!”

I turn around to realize half the contents of my backpack are behind me, a trail of stuff thrown from the bag. Defeated, I retreat to pick up the 860-page historical fiction novel, the bookmark that’s no longer holding my spot, the travel journal, two pens, and the reindeer stuffie my bestie had just given me hours before the mad dash commenced.

With gratitude, I collect my belongings as my other half talks with a tall Black man dressed similarly to the Indian woman we met earlier. With a distinguished English accent and a debonair sense to him, he alleges we must go to “Gate G” to re-book our flight. He removes the retractable belt barrier and points us through the exit, where we must show our passport.

Blindly, I follow his directions, fearing he may have insinuated that we are meant to steer ourselves toward the second star, fly until morning, only to turn around and follow the rabbit with a pocket watch into the hole.

Instead, his directions lead us to the British Airways counter outside of security. Sprinting past bright-eyed travelers, we make our way to various lines and customer service representatives. One man, sharp-dressed in a three-piece suit with the flair and charisma of an auburn Nathan Lane, dramatically informs me his airline will never take responsibility for our previous flight being stuck on the runway for two hours due to “restrictions” that caused two passengers to miss their next flight. We must return to the company of our previous trip.

“Where’s that?”

“Terminal three.”

“Where are we now?”

“Terminal five.”

“Ugh,” I answer, likely with an eye roll. I thank him, wave toward my other half and motion toward the elevator.                                           

We literally retrace our steps and arrive at Finnair’s counter. We retell our harrowing tale of woe, two not synchronized voices. The representative nonchalantly informs us we’ve already been re-booked. It’s no big deal. We just need to show our current boarding pass at security and we’ll be on our way.

“But our current boarding pass expired. That flight left two hours ago.”

“Don’t worry,” she said reminding me more of a stunning Middle Eastern woman than the bright blonde and pale features of a stereotypical Finnish woman. “It’ll work.”

“OK, what terminal is that flight?”

“Terminal five.”

You have got to be kidding me, screamed my internal dialogue. My hopes are dashed as I feel like a mouse on a wheel. Retreating our steps against traffic, we miss the adorable English family and their baby that didn’t want to leave mama’s arms and be assembled into the pram by daddy. She calmed when given a cell phone with a favorite program streaming on it. She became amused by the crazy American chickie talking to her, which her mama said in a jovial tone, was a new experience for the little one.

Instead, we are two of a few adults on the subway, using colorful adjectives to describe our experience in this particular airport. As we exit, a startling noise alerts the other five passengers.

“Don’t worry, it’s just me,” I playfully announce walking through the aisle after my stainless-steel water bottle attached to the outside of my backpack slams against a metal pole on the tram. “I’ve been doing it all day.” I try to sound upbeat and friendly, but fear my water bottle gives away my true emotions.

We reach security and a shrouded woman instructs us to flash our boarding pass to the scanner and wait for the plastic sliding doors to open. As a surprise to absolute no one, the machine beeps and flashes a red “X.”

Stress and tension mount. My head drops back.

Running back to the British Airways area, we ask for new boarding passes. Handed off like hot potatoes, it takes two suicide sprints and three representatives’ instructions before a chubby British woman makes our acquaintance. She casually strolls to her counter, examines our boarding passes, passports, and checked luggage tags. Her fingers dance on the keyboard in the rhythm of a waltz. My other half asks out the status of our luggage.

She shushes him and reminds him she’s doing us a favor by trying to get us on board the next flight before the gates close. She is irked.

I am flabberghasted.

Wait, WHAT? We landed almost THREE HOURS ago! How are we going to miss this flight TOO?

She informs us she doesn’t have time to research the whereabouts of our luggage, but if we hurry, we might make our next flight.

Adrenaline rushes between us and we run to security. We make it through the initial test only to become stuck, paralyzed, behind an Indian family dismantling their baby’s stroller and putting each individual toy in the bin, one. at. a. time. to run on the conveyor belt through the x-ray scanner. Moving at the pace of molasses, my patience is reaching a lava spewing point. I remind myself: this is not the time nor place to lose your cool, Brandy.

Collecting my belongings from the bin on the other side of the machine, I don’t bother putting on my oversized blanket sweatshirt or snow boots. Boarding started five minutes ago and judging by the directional signs, our gate is on the other side of galaxy.

The race, which I doubt was ever a marathon, is on. We weave through traffic, down and up escalators, over moving platforms, darting between well-dressed pilots, rushing parents with their screaming children, and jocks carrying their specialty drinks. My socked feet miss the cushioning of the boots against the concrete floors. Carrying my sweatshirt and backpack, careful not to run, becomes too much.

The maze is never ending. Just as I begin to accept my fate and realize Heathrow is my own personal purgatory, we see a group of people standing in front of a sign that simply reads “Boston.”

At last.