Set Straight in San Antone

There are better places than San Antonio Airport to get stuck on a layover, places with more than three "restaurants," more than two electrical outlets per terminal, more than zero electrical outlets conveniently located next to chairs. But those airports might not provide a much needed pause for perspective like San Antonio's did for me this weekend.

The plane that was supposed to take me from San Antonio to O'Hare was en route from Chicago, scheduled to arrive at 1:15 pm. However, it diverted to Austin-Bergstrom International Airport to refuel. This made me nervous. Are pilots just like drivers, cruising around until they find the lowest fuel prices and then swerving across three flight patterns to fill up? Assuming that gas does not cost less in the state capitol - I mean, if there's a city in Texas where gas is gonna cost less, it'd be President Bush's "hometown" of Crawford - does that mean the pilot had been flying on fumes? San Antonio is only an 90-mile drive from Austin, yet this aviator couldn't make it that far? If so, is that same Chuck Yeager flying me to Chicago?

As I wait, an airport employee makes an announcement. "Three Skycaps with three wheelchairs please report to Gate 12." Do you have to tip an indoor Skycap, just like you do their colleagues on the check-in curb? If so, is it two bucks per wheelchair, just like it's two bucks per bag? I wonder if unaware septuagenarians routinely end up in the wrong city because they fail to tip the guy pushing them.

A large number of soldiers wander about the terminal in their desert fatigues. Judging from the conversations, few of them are headed home. It's been at least six months since I bought an airport meal for a soldier or Marine; I used to do so frequently. These men and women don't seem to stand out as much to me as they once did. Have I grown numb to their presence? To their sacrifices?

I watch a unique couple walk toward me, as I stand next to the random wall where my laptop is recharging. Both people are in their late-forties, and she holds onto a gorgeous Golden Retriever guide dog. They pass me, and then, after some muted discussion, walk back toward the restrooms. From the corner of my eye, I see the husband usher his wife into...the men's room. It couldn't be, I think. I step back from my laptop for a second to get a better look at the signage. I'm right; the guy sent his wife and her guide dog into the wrong bathroom! I hustle over to him.

"Excuse me, sir, I don't mean to bother you, but, uh, do you know you just sent her into the men's room?" Hubby Dearest looks at me like I asked for a donation to the Hari Krishna's. He starts to speak as he turns toward the entrances. "No, I didn..." His voice trails off as his face blanches. He draws his hand to his mouth and pauses. "Oh, shit."

I feel bad enough for him that I suppress my laugh. He starts and stops, then does it again, as though miming a classic song by The Clash. Finally, he looks at me, shrugs and runs into the bathroom. It takes all my self-control not to follow him. I know that, once inside, nothing could stop me from pulling out my cell phone and taking a picture of the scene: a stall door, a pair of flats and four golden paws.

The guy exits ten seconds later. Alone. We make eye contact, and he exhales deeply. "Too late?" I ask unnecessarily. He nods and approaches. "This," he says with a sheepish grin, "Is a story we're going to tell for a while." Sir, you have no idea. His wife comes out a few moments later, laughing heartily. With one hand holding her dog, she threads the other arm through her husband's and gives him a squeeze. I cannot believe how gracefully she handled that, how she managed to see the humor in a humiliating situation.

Here I am moaning that my flight is delayed and the airport doesn't have enough outlets. But I'm not blind, and I'm not heading off to Iraq, from where I might return blind.

I don't have the right to complain about anything.

As the couple fades from view, an Army private fresh out of basic and advanced individual training crosses in front of me. He doesn't look old enough to play in a Friday night high school football game. I watch him get on line at the sandwich place. He doesn't know it yet, but he's not paying for lunch.