Rolling Traveler

I had thought I was flying British Airways from Tampa, Florida to London Gatwick, but the white plane I could see at the end of the jet bridge said Euro Atlantic in blue letters. I checked the gate again, but there was no change. I began to regret not having Christian’s Dad come with me to the gate: it’s always easier to deal with uncertainty when you can wonder with someone else. The gate crew looked hassled already, dealing with a dodgy printer and some irate man who wanted to be moved so he was sitting behind his grandson, not next to him, so I decided to wait until things calmed down.

 “Ready to go?” said the assistance crew member, an older gent with an orange complexion, and grabbed the handles of my wheelchair.

 “Hang on,” I said, putting my hands firmly on the wheels to stop us. “Is that the right plane? I’m supposed to be flying British Airways.”

 “Yeah, it’s a whaddyacallit, a charter thing. A sub contract. Same flight, different airline.” And we were off.

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