On the Sunday after our national day of thanks, my Delta Shuttle taxis around LaGuardia Airport like a cat without a home. I can't help but overhear the conversation that a few college girls are having behind me. There is endless chatter about who had sex with the totally plastered 6'5" ubermensch last weekend. The utter joys of one of the busiest travel days in the United States.

I leave my house at 3:15 p.m. and arrive at the Marine Air Terminal of LaGuardia at 3:40 for a 4:30 flight. Normally, this would be plenty of time. I enter the terminal through the main entrance and find myself redirected to a large white tent. To my dismay, Delta is not hosting a flea market for old blankets, pillows, and peanuts or offering a circus show with tigers jumping through rings of fire for my pre-flight entertainment. I have to stand in line under this white tent just to get inside of the terminal--not a good omen for the voyage.

Delta is surprisingly organized. Unfortunately, their organization can't make up for the rain, fog, or LaGuardia's typical chaos and congestion. I receive a green ticket, number 90, and I'm directed into a line with other spiritually and emotionally broken travelers. We all sit down like a herd of sheep, forced into a corner with nothing but concrete under our feet. "We" are mostly college kids and a few lonely professionals and grandparents.

I take out A Passage to India, but I know, like Sisyphus, that the struggle is useless. I can't concentrate under the present conditions: heavy, Dantean sighs abound; cell phones go off and everyone reaches into their pockets because they don't know their ringer style; bodies and bags are strewn over the floor in such disarray that you don't know which is which and the image reminds me of spaghetti and meatballs.

The loudspeaker announces that those with yellow tickets are next in queue. Then the orange are up--the herds to my right baa in delight. Some are prematurely excited because they think they have orange, but they actually have a painfully deceptive salmon-peach. A random voice on the loudspeaker calls for the lavender tickets, but hesitates and admits a mistake. Someone holding a lavender ticket probably has a mild heart attack and doesn't realize it.

Boarding the 5:30 flight at 5:50, they get up to green ticket number 82! So close and yet so far. My heart picks up the beat, in anticipation of a miracle, but to no avail. The herd mumbles that we should have taken the bus or train. Loyalists and optimists disagree with these dissenters, citing horror stories of eight-hour train rides with enough bodies in the car to cause a fire hazard and odor alert. A Harvard student declares, "It is times like these when you wish you went to Columbia."

The omnipotent loudspeaker announces that there's going to be a special 6:15 flight. I jump off the carpet with the energy of a deprived mouse at the sight of Swiss cheese. They direct us to a waiting area and our eyes feast upon the sight of chairs. Right angles and cheap leather never looked this good. I borrow a cell phone and call my mom. We were both expecting me to be safely lodged in Wigglesworth Hall at this time. She nearly drops a pot of boiling water when I tell her that I'm still at LaGuardia.

We finally board the plane. I reach down to pick up A Passage to India, but I hear the girls behind me begin to talk and I capitulate. They gossip with fervor as if everyone should and wants to hear anything and everything they say. I learn about ubermensch #4 as I eat my dry carrots and meditate on the moist turkey of a few days ago.