I’m hoping my readers aren’t yet weary of stories from my recent adventure at the Tallahassee airport because I have one last tale to tell.
To recap, on Sunday morning I took my granddaughter to the airport to catch a flight back to Illinois. We arrived early because I was a nervous ninny about the whole “I’m sending a 16-year-old off to Chicago in a big hunk of metal during a raging thunderstorm” thing.
We made it through security with only a little hiccup—apparently McKayla had a bag chock full of coins stowed away in her carry-on. The x-ray machine couldn’t quite discern what was going on and a physical search was called for, but soon, the problem was resolved and we were clear to enter the gate area.
Immediately upon leaving security we encountered a woman I took to be right around my age. She was shorter than me and her red hair was carefully coiffed. She had friendly eyes above her mask. It was fairly obvious that she wasn’t a regular flyer. She was looking around and we walked by her just as she dropped her phone.
Me, being me, I bent down to retrieve the phone, whereupon she let go of her small suitcase. It fell over and the handle hit the top of my head. I’m not going to lie, it hurt, but I think I hid that well—I only cried a tiny bit.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said as I handed her the phone. “Thank you.”
“It’s fine,” I said picking the suitcase up by the offending handle.
When she took it from me, she bobbled her phone again and we both reached for it, bumping heads.
We both got a case of the giggles to the horror of my granddaughter. I said, “I think I’ve just met my travel twin!”
She laughed and thanked me again and we retired to opposite corners. The bell never rang for round two.