Departure day. People who envy our glamorous travels never see us hitting the streets before daybreak, trailing our worldly goods behind us, looking for the subway. Our buddies with the Uzis had spent the night guarding the hotel- they were still outside. We appreciated it. The trip to the airport took longer than expected (we were on the direct line to the airport but not all trains go as far as the airport) but had plenty of time to get to our flight. The flight was beautiful- I saw the East coast of Italy at one point. Unfortunately, the Swiss Alps were hidden beneath clouds- theyd been spectacular on the way down.

We landed at Heathrow 15 minutes early, allowing us 1.5 hours total till our flight to Chicago. No problem, right? Our first inkling that something might be wrong was the massive security queue. We hit it at 11:15, still with an hour till our next flight. By the time we cleared security it was 11:40 and the flight left at 12:15- from another terminal, reachable only by bus. But we werent free to go yet. Id packed a big, clunky electrical transformer in my carry-on, planning to use my computer if we had time in London or Athens airports. They needed to inspect my bag. One man was in charge and he was carefully and deliberately pulling out every single item in the carry-on bag of the little old lady in front of me. (I believe her offense was traveling with a curling iron.) He even paged through a notebook in her bag. I began to get agitated and pace. I asked another employee if they could get to my bag next because of a short connection. He said the guy had to take them in order. The nice young man whose bag was next offered to let us go first (he had a longer layover) - in the meantime I went over and explained my concerns to some supervisors, who probably wondered what was wrong with me, anyway. A lady said shed send her supervisor over. By that time, they had my bag (Ron was with it) and finally cleared it after swabbing all the electrical stuff for explosives residue. We raced to the bus, then raced through Terminal 3. I ran ahead, figuring Ron could follow at a reasonable pace, and got to the gate. They were expecting me since Id talked to them at the AA counter while Ron waited with my bag. I explained breathlessly that my husband, 67 years old and a cardiac patient, would be there soon and he was only a few steps behind me. (He has longer legs and he walked fast.) It was noon. Gee, why was I so stressed out?

Ron thoughtfully asked me as we passed a pile of complimentary papers if Id like the Financial Times. No, I said. Id like some Thorazine.

We're in ORD and have been delayed 4 hours thanks to bad weather. We're in the Crown Room Club which hardly seems less crazed than The Outside. Estimated landing time at MCI is 10 PM- not what we needed. But we're on our way.