In an international airport, it’s very easy to lose track of scale. Thousands of people in the terminal are flowing past you on their way home, on business trips, on vacations. Faces you will see once and then never again, extras cast to mill about in the background of the television program that is your life.
Until you’re all standing in line at the American Airlines service desk.
Suddenly, the scale crashes in on itself. Hundreds of people stuck in the same situation as you, faces you were supposed to discard like used luggage tags at your final destination that are now etched into your mind as you inch your way closer to the airline rep entering hour number four of being berated over a decision that came from far above them.
When they finally give you a hotel voucher, you take an Uber and arrive at the same time as twenty other people from that service desk line. Those same people stand outside with you and wait for a ride back to the airport the next morning. You’re linked now, stuck together, forever able to bond about a shared experience that left you scarred.
It’s a lot like rooting for the Los Angeles Chargers.
Im ok just hydroplanned into the wall
When Arif Hasan and I sat down for our meeting to pitch this piece in May, life was much simpler. Wide Left has been credentialed by the NFL for games – international games, even – before. We’d get me a credential for the São Paulo game between the Chargers and Chiefs, I’d cover the game from the press box, write something about the game environment in Brazil or the turf conditions or Justin Herbert’s performance.
The NFL had other ideas. See, while Arif has been credentialed by the NFL before, I have not. While we wished Wide Left had the kind of pull as an outlet to send whoever we want to whatever event we want, we do not. The league denied my credential in mid-August, well after my travel plans were already booked.
This was a catastrophe beyond just this story. I have been fighting a losing battle with the NFL to credential me as a journalist for nine months, during which I have been rejected from the Pro Football Writers of America three different times. Their reasoning is that I do not cover NFL events in person. I have yet to find an NFL event that will credential me to attend – the unwritten reason being that I am not in the PFWA.
I was already heading to Brazil, though. We’ll have to find a different piece to write.
It’s 8:15 a.m. on Sunday, August 31. I leave my house outside of Seattle for the airport, show my Brazilian visa to the ticket counter, and fly to Dallas.
During my layover in Dallas, I’m reminded of the notorious reputation of airports as a liminal space. Even with only a two-hour time change, I have no idea what time it is when I get in line at a Whataburger built into an alleyway kitchen. A random man compliments my pants. The guy behind me is in a suit. The woman in front of me is in pajamas. I take my burger to the second story of my gate, which requires walking through a luxury mall wedged between two departure desks. The people across from me have built a fortress out of the lounge chairs to nap before their flight. Two small European children chase each other and shriek in a language I can only guess to be German.
By 8:09 p.m., I am on the next plane, scheduled to depart from Dallas and arrive in São Paulo the next morning. The plane stalls on the tarmac, presumably waiting in line for a runway or for maintenance. Something routine. At 8:42 p.m., the captain announces, in English, that a staff member has timed out and will be replaced shortly. By 8:47 p.m., this statement has been amended to push the flight back to the next morning at 9 a.m..
At 9:37 p.m., I walk outside to wait for a shuttle to the Motel 6 in Irving, Texas and discover that it is pouring rain. My friend lets me know later that it is actually only pouring specifically at the airport. A container truck has crashed into the underpass and blocked one lane of traffic coming into the arrivals pickup point.
I do not have a jacket nor transportation. American Airlines denies me access to my suitcase, preventing me from changing out of my soaked clothes. Desperate to salvage even a small portion of the evening, I order a burger and a Pizookie on DoorDash at 11:15 p.m. My driver gets stuck a few minutes away from the motel. It’s a confusing set of intersections, I reckon. In the rain, it’s probably even harder to find the right turn.
At 12:03 a.m., my DoorDash driver lets me know that he has crashed his car.
“Im ok just hydroplanned into the wall” becomes a catch-all response to the events that will follow. It is the new title of my group chat with other football media members. We’re thinking of printing T-shirts for a new Wide Left merch store.
At 1:05 a.m., my new order of Taco Bell, the only restaurant open by the time Mr. Hydroplanned and I figured out how to cancel my order, arrives.
By 7:55 a.m. the next morning, I returned to the gate, entering hour 25 wearing this outfit. An unnamed man with a small child comes up to me and says he’s a big fan of my work. He’s not on my flight to Brazil, he just happens to be in the DFW airport.
At 8:40 a.m., the flight was delayed another 9 hours. I accept an itinerary change that routes me through Miami, but I have to get in line for the service desk anyway because they have to see my visa to print a new boarding pass.
It has now been 22 hours and 25 minutes since I left my house. I was supposed to be in Brazil two hours ago.
Why is Travis Scott Playing a Show in São Paulo?
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