Air travel is crazy uncertain these days, which is part of its charm. In Philadelphia, the United jet scheduled to fly us to Denver comes in with one engine running hot, a safety risk. Can't be fixed soon, the captain announces to his flock. But adds: they've scrounged another plane, due to arrive 4 hours later that evening. Not perfect. Good enough for me though. Please get me to Denver, where I need to speak in the morning at a CASE conference with 800 attendees.
A frantic guy from India asks to borrow my cell phone. He has an 8 AM meeting scheduled with a client in California. That meeting isn't going to happen this side of Einstein's relativity theory. His chat with his supervisor doesn't go well.
Then it gets (good) freaky. The pilot and co-pilot emerge again from the jetway, trailed by the cabin crew. Each of them bearing a coffee carafe, cups, and condiments on a tray. They spread across the lounge, offering free coffee and inviting questions. An hour passes. Then the same pilot and co-pilot sweep in with a half-dozen pizzas for the remaining crowd. The stranded converge on the podium for a slice or two.
I'm in the bar next door watching all this, a burger washed down with two black-and-tan Yuengling drafts. Smooth, honest grain taste, medium body.
In the bar and outside, laptops are fired up. The accessoried class. The chattering classes. The democratization of "we're all interesting." A young woman looks through the photos of her friends. When an image disgusts/delights her, she phones someone. On the other side of the glass where I'm eating, a guy roots his finger up his nose while watching the movie Sideways. Another has his Facebook page open.
At 8 pm, two hours into the wait, 60 minutes replaces football on the bar's TVs. An architect starts watching Pulp Fiction on his laptop. The drinkers at the bar are getting buzzed. And louder. On the last stool, tucked into a corner, a quiet guy tries to get a new book going. "She likes you," a stranger teases him, referring to the bartender, a young woman. A different bunch nestles into the bar. Strangers trading travel tales. Occasionally shouting, voices with the brakes on because they don't want to appear drunk. Still polite. "Got my luggage on the eighth day." Flirting woman: "Are you listening to me? Come over here so I can speak to you." He moves and almost dumps her computer.
The Philadelphia airport starts to close. A cop glides past on his Segway. It's sweet to hear the employees ask about plans, get on their mobiles, exchange soft, tired good nights.
There's an uncertainty to flying these days that's delicious. Appointments missed. Surprise disappointments. A fake sense of danger: WIll the connections work this time? What will I see? Whom might I meet?
We board finally at 10 pm, and the air crew throws open the drinks cart. Free booze for anyone who wants it. I arrive in Denver at 1 am. Not a taxi in sight.
But there is a driver standing in the shadows next to one of those vans that goes downtown and circulates amongst hotels. I look at him. He looks at me and shrugs with a half smile, "I'm supposed to wait until I have six passengers." The airport is deserted. "But..."
"You tell me what you think," I say, "and I'll tell you what I think." He ventures, "Forty-five dollars?" I've been to Denver before. I know that's the same fare as a cab and I'm exhausted. I've got to be up again in a few hours and entertaining a crowd. I hold out my two bits of luggage: "Let's go."
Which is how I meet Kindu. He's Ethiopian. He has studied business in Hong Kong, worked for a Japanese firm and in Korea. Now he lives in Denver with his wife and two kids, driving a taxi. He has his own rig, but tonight he's filling in for someone else. We talk politics, the promise of Obama. He gives me his cell number so I can call him to pick me up the next day for the return to the airport. He predicts clear weather.
It's snowing hard when I wake up. I do my two sessions. They go well. I phone Kindu and right on time, he's waiting for me in front of the hotel. "You're in trouble, mister," I greet him. "You are the world's worst weather forecaster."
But a flawless driver. During the ride I ask him about Ethiopian restaurants in Denver; some people talk sports, I prefer talking restaurants. Any good? Several are very good, he answers with obvious relish. "You come again, I'll take you." Kindu and I have a date.