Wyclef: My Angel in the Outfield

Some of you are very familiar with a DC boozy brunch.  Some of you are not.  For those of you who are not so well versed, let me explain a few things that will shed a little clarity to my trip to Spain (two months ago today,) and how it went a little rockier than necessary. 

In DC we love our brunch.  Saturday? Amazing.  Sunday Funday?  Even better.  The point is, if you are able to drag yourself out of bed on the weekend before 2 pm, you really have no valid reason not to partake in brunch.  "Brunch?" you say, "I don't understand the hype."  Well trust me and the thousands of others in the DC who participate in the weekly ritual: you'd understand if your city had bottomless Mimosas/Bloody Marys, too. #1776. 

So it should come to no suprise to you all that before leaving for my epic voyage across the Atlantic, my friends and I would plan one last "going away" brunch to bid farewell and allow me to order an extra side of bacon in knowledge of the fact that I wouldn't be having it for some time. 

We went to Ulah, and commenced the festivities around 10 or 11 am if I remember correctly. Having stayed at Lindsey's apartment that weekend (my bff- holla atcha gurlll) my bags were ready and packed in anticipation of  my cross-continental journey.  The plan was to be at brunch until about 3 pm, then go back to her place, pick up my luggage and take an Uber over to Dulles by 4:40 pm, in plenty of time for my 6:40 pm flight.  However, for those of you who have experience in the DC brunch scene, I'm sure you can already guess that this did most assuredly not go to plan.

After a few hours of brunching, my crew and I were well libated from the delicious nectar of the gods we call Mimosa.  Feeling fine, and wanting to be close with friends, it seemed only instinctive someone would suggest going back to Emily and Laura's apartment complex with a case or so of Bud Light for the after party.  Never one to be the voice of reason or deny a party, I clearly obliged.  Making the trek in the pouring rain over to Dupont to continue drinking WAS the right thing to do. 

Things became more and more haze-like as shenanigans continued at the apartment.  Drinks were had, songs were sung, dances were dances, and the most photogenic of photos were taken.  The most joyous of times were cut abruptly when Lindsey leaned over and said "Hey Kris, it's getting late, we should probably get you to the airport."  (Lindsey-- how do you always KNOW?  Thanks. Thank you, always.)

Before I knew it I had my bags in an Uber back in Alexandria saying goodbye, headed over to Dulles.  Let me say that I have flown an awful lot for someone my age and am pretty confident in independent aviation travel.  This wasn't after all, my first flight I've been on where I maybe had drank more than I should.  However, it was one of the first times I had been to Dulles, and it was the first time I had consumed that magnitude before an international fight.        

Find airline. Print ticket. Get through security.  My brain had reverted to basic survival mode.  I was running late and in serious danger of missing the flight.  After I got through security, I started to panic.  This airport was way too large, and given my current state and rising level of anxiety, there was no way I was making it on time.  That's when I saw him, nearly giving off a warm celestial glow in his airport uniform.  Wyclef: my Angel in the Outfield.

Although some of you are probably now concerned why Wyclef would be handling luggage and working in Dulles Airport opposed to working on his musical career, this was not my concern at that moment.  I, too, would now like all the answers you are currently seeking.  However, in the heat of the moment, and in my time-pressed schedule, the only thing I cared about was that Wyclef Jean would come to my aid, look at my ticket stub, take me across various shuttles, and personally deliver me to my gate.  He must have known that my mother would have been Killing Me (not so) Softly had I missed that flight.

Once on the plane, I could finally relax.  I tried to sleep, but sleeping eight straight hours on a plane is a challenge, even for me.  As such, I was pretty in and out of sleep the entire flight.  After a heavy night of drinking in "real life"people traditionally go to bed drunk and wake up sober, yet hungover.  However, a funny thing about international travel:  I don't know if it's the altitude, time change, or light on and off again sleeping throughout the journey, but getting into Heathrow for my connection I didn't feel drunk, sober, or hungover.  I just felt a weird limbo between all three, and was pretty positive I was dead.

Pressed for time yet again to make my connection to Madrid, I got to go to the fast check lane through security before heading to my gate.  Those of you who haven't yet been to Heathrow: JUST. DON'T.  It's absolutely a hot mess, and no one (I mean no one) has their ish together.

As I snaked to the front of a completely disorganized line, I was directed to remove any 'liquids or gels' I presently had in my carry-on.  Now of course writing this is going to put me on some sort of TSA watch-list, but I can assure you that never in my life have I heard that phrase and taken it to heart.  I have MISTAKENLY brought my mace on a plane at least 3 times round trip, and a FULL SIZED BOTTLE of nail polish remover in my purse on a previous flight.  I really didn't have time to show off my travel-sized shower gel.  My toilitries were staying in my bag-- this American woman had a flight to catch.

I passed through security and waited for my bag on the other side of the conveyor belt.  Things were going slowly.  What was happening?  Oh no-- my bag. Ma'am?  Why are you taki--ok, please just hand it to me bef-- wow.  the 'special' lane, huh?! So you gonna do me like that?!  I starred at my bag in terror as it was segregated to the 'at risk' pile.  The people checking the bags one by one couldn't care less if your luggage happened to fall in the wrong category. At this point, I honestly thought I would pass out if I didn't get something to drink ASAP.  I asked one of the ladies working security if she thought I'd "have time" to quickly go over to a neighboring stand to get some water before she finished checking my bag.  She looked at me as if to say Oh sweetie, you have NO IDEA what you are in for.  I would soon recognize this look on a daily basis.  But then, I ignorantly smiled, and made a break for the overpriced airport stand. 

I ordered a water and an orange juice.  It took forever, but finally I was handed a water while the guy working behind the counter prepared the orange juice. I drank over half the water before I received the juice.  WATER. What substance had ever tasted so delicious?!   He handed over the juice and told me some obscene price like "8 pounds." I smiled, handed him a 10 Euro bill and waited for my change.  He looked at me with sheer disdain.  "Ma'am, you handed me Euro.  This is England.  Here we take pounds." A wave of panic rushed over me.  I had no pounds.  I also had no belongings.  Was this where it ended?  I thought, Do I make a break for it and just run, or do I pan-handle for 8 pounds?  

"Ma'am, do you have a credit card?" 
"Oh my Godddd, yes, a card!  Hold on, I'll get it!" as if he just invented time travel.

With my newly purchased beverages, I wandered back to the security.  I had been gone a solid 10 minutes.  Surely my bag was waiting for me.

Sure as hell it WASN'T.  My bag was still about the fourth from the line.  I started bargaining with God in my head and pacing back and forth.  I absolutely needed to make this flight.   Literally about an hour later, I started to cry.  I could see from the overhead screens that my flight was boarding and I wasn't to the gate, and was still waiting for my bag.  As I begged the guy to begin, he took EVERY ITEM out of my carry-on in order to inspect it with a special tool that I can only assume is made to find bombs.  Keep in mind, I prepped to spend about a year abroad.  Your carry on does not get weighed.  That carry on was packed to the brim with clothes so precisely in order to fit as much as humanly possible.  While blinking back tears, he explained to me how to get to my gate before handing me the last item.  Finally he was done checking everything (including laying out all my underwear for everyone to see) but it was my duty to repack the entire bag.

I threw items in with reckless abandon and sat on my suitcase like a cartoon in order to zip the bulbous luggage.  I sprinted as quickly as I could to the gate.  Luckily, it only took me about five minutes to get there as it wasn't too far from security.  The gate was empty-- the entire plane had boarded.  I slowed down and staggered over to the people at the gate defeated, like the last couple on Amazing Race, knowing I was too late and missed my flight. 

"Are you Kristen Witkop?  The plane is waiting for you."

Dumbfounded, I took my ticket that they had printed off and ran past them, profusely thanking them along the way.  I bumped through the passengers, threw my carry-on into the overhead compartment with great challenge, and silently sweated next to my neighbor in satisfaction.  I was making that flight, and I was getting the Sangria that was rightfully mine. 

Two hours later, I touched down in Madrid, a full 12 hours later from my Dulles experience.  I took a taxi to the hotel, and proceeded to sleep nearly 12 full hours before my orientation.

So in retrospect, maybe it could have gone smoother.  Maybe I could have done some things differently.  However, on September 13, 2014 Wyclef and I shared an incredible memory that neither of us will ever forget, and for that I think we all can agree it was worth it.