The flight out of Peoria, Ill., was terminally delayedby a Steven Spielberg-type of thunderstorm, which meant that I wasn’t going to make the Chicago connection, which meant I was going to be stuck at O’Hare, which I knew would look like the last days of Saigon. And it did.
But it was the angry woman in line in front of me in Peoria that made it all worthwhile. “I fly from Dallas to here every week,” she said. “This happens a lot.” I smiled and shrugged. What can you do?