A Hate Letter to the Snow

[A note for the reader: this was originally written on January 16.]

Though this is headlined as a hate letter to the snow, I want to begin by saying I love the snow. Growing up, I loved snow days (RIP to this new generation of Zoomers) and building snowmen with my older sister on our front porch. Snow is beautiful because it slows down time around us with each of its intricate six petaled crystallizations. But, oh boy, does it slow… down… time…, especially as I wait here in NYC’s LaGuardia Airport for my flight to campus that is now four hours delayed.

Honestly, it’s exciting — this is my first delayed flight, and I’ve never stayed in the airport this long before. I’ve already eavesdropped on countless conversations, watched exasperated people come and go, and observed how a stressed flight attendant handled a crowd of twenty anxious passengers.

Let’s start from the beginning.

It all started last night, as I nervously watched the snow powder the ground from my window and said to my dad, “Oh boy, I hope the snow doesn’t affect my flight tomorrow.” Famous last words.

I arrive at the airport bright and early for my 10:15 a.m. flight (a.k.a. at 8:45 a.m.), and speed through TSA, narrowly avoiding a grumpy security officer. Bad omen #1.

Then, my bag gets pulled aside by a TSA officer. “You got chocolate in here?” he asks as he holds up a bag that does, in fact, contain chocolate bars and is also probably 50 pounds since I’m a chronic overpacker. “Yessir,” I sheepishly say, and he lets me through. Bad omen #2.

I lug my suitcase to my gate, happy I could finally sit down. That is, until I realize that the gate number has been changed to one at the opposite end of the building. Bad omen #3.

All is relatively fine and dandy after that, until I get a notification on my phone that the flight has been delayed for an hour. Fine. I pull out my laptop and do some work (though not before letting my entire friend group know about my traveling woes). The problem wasn’t that first notification. It was the fifty notifications that followed it.

Flight is now departing at 11:30 a.m.

Flight is now delayed to a 12:00 p.m. departure.

Now delayed to 12:30 p.m.

Now delayed to 1:00 p.m.

By this time, there is a long line of people frantically canceling their flight. The flight attendant makes an announcement.

“The plane coming from Boston to NYC still has not left its gate at Boston Logan Airport. We’re expected to be able to depart here at 1 p.m., but the plane will arrive at its NYC gate by 9:45 a.m.”

I check my phone. It’s 10:30 a.m. So I guess that plane is traveling back into time.

Now, I don’t have anything particularly scheduled for today, so I’m fine with chilling in the airport for a few hours. It's a mixture of sunk-cost fallacy and the fact that I work better with other people around me. But just in case, I approach the flight attendant manning the front desk.

“Hey, is it possible to rebook my flight?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What about canceling it? Will that incur fees?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Has the plane even left Boston yet?”

“I’m not sure.”

So much uncertainty in this world. Not enough answers.

I wander back to my seat and realize that the people sitting around me an hour ago have been replaced by new faces. So either I’ve just got unparalleled persistence to getting on this plane, or too much free time on my hands. I also want to note: I do not need to be on this flight. I booked a flight a week earlier than the first day of classes purely for the vibes. So I acknowledge that the only person I have to blame is myself and my past self’s foolish, foolish desire to return to campus a week early.

Unfortunately, I’ve been stuck at home all of winter break, jealously watching as people on Instagram travel to different continents. Therefore, I’m desperate to engage with the outside world. The universe has delivered that exact wish to me at this moment.

The conclusion to this saga is that my flight is finally on its way over from Boston, and I’m projected to depart at 2:30 p.m., hopefully ending my wait in this gray carpeted gate waiting area.

Yes, I hate the snow right now. I’ve been waiting for my flight since 9 a.m., and it’s currently past 1 p.m. Yet, what better time to experience my first flight delay and deliver this article to our beautiful Flyby readers?

Update: We ended up taking off at 5 p.m., making the whole experience a seven hour delay for a mere 36 minute flight…

Eve’s Addendum [January 21, 2024]: Reader, believe me when I say that when I first read Rachel’s wonderful article, I had no idea it would be an omen for me. But lo and behold, three days later, here I sit, stranded in the Chicago Midway (not even O’Hare!!!!!!) Airport waiting for a continuously delayed flight to Boston to return me from my little Radcliffe Choral Society tour of the South. And whose fault is that? The snow. The cold, wet, devious, downright malicious Boston snow. Take this as a lesson: merely THINKING about the possibility of snow can ruin your travel plans. Be careful: THIS COULD BE YOU.