Four hour delay. That's what the damn promoter read at my gate this morning. I checked the marquee of flights and of course mine was the only delayed flight.

"Is it possible to switch to the 6:20 flight to San Diego?" I ask at the kiosk.

"Sorry, but that flight isn't on our airlines," she responds.

"But is says it's American Airlines,"

"It's actually an Alaska Airlines flight. We just had a sell code for that flight,"

"Can I switch to the 7:30 flight to San Diego then?"

She prints out my new tickets even though it is also partnered with Alaska Airlines. So I head to Alaska's customer service.

"Can I switch my 7:30 flight to the 6:20 flight?" I ask as they announce last call for boarding.

"Just in time," he says, printing new tickets.

"Hey, dad?" I say in a hurry as I'm boarding the plane. "I switched my flights. I'll actually be landing in San Diego instead of LA. Can you pick me up there?"

"Sir, we need you to sit," the attendant urges.

"Oww!" the passenger next to me exclaims as I step on her toes, rushing to sit and confirm I have a ride from the airport.

It seems all of my airport experiences lately are becoming wild rushes to find new gates and being THAT GUY.

Well, until I offered the girl who's toes I stepped on a few apologies and to buy a drink or something. One Bloody Mary later and we were cool.

And luckily my dad met me in the correct city after an abrupt two-minute call.

Yay for adaptability and adventure or something.

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