The day had begun on a less dire note. When I woke up Sunday morning at the Renaissance Schaumburg Hotel, I looked out the window and saw some pretty snow flurries.
Not long after, it was a snow squall, and soon after that, it was a snow bomb: a complete whiteout. I thought it was charming: The hotel is mostly glass, and everywhere I looked I saw a bright and white and glorious spectacle. Then people in the elevators started saying their flights were canceled—or seriously delayed. I got worried, so I called the airport.
They said my flight was running on time, so I headed for O'Hare. But the minute I got to Gate E17, I received a bad-news text from the airlines—the first of more than twenty.
Twenty-nine hours later, my two-hour flight was completed, and I found myself back home, typing this story.
At one point, while looking for a cozy floor spot to sleep on, I got an email from Technical Editor John Atkinson, saying his flight was canceled. John being John, he decided to rent a car, but there were none to be had. But John is smart, he did something that a thousand other stranded people didn't think of: He took a train-from Chicago to New York City. I was completely impressed (and jealous) that he thought of it, and more jealous, still, that he pulled it off. John was in Brooklyn before I got out of the airport.
