Two weeks ago today I graduated with my PhD from the University of St Andrews. Being back in St Andrews was a wonderful experience. It was great to be able to show my parents around for the first time. As I was retracing my steps and hitting up all of my favorite places around town I was quite nostalgic and reflective about my time at St Andrews. Every other time that I left St Andrews I always knew when I was going to be back. This time I had no plans on when I’d return. I suspect I will be back, Lord willing, but the weird thing for me was that I just didn’t know when that might be. And so I started to think of the possibility that I could be doing certain things for the very last time in St Andrews (e.g. my last order of “Chips and Cheese,” my final Almond Croissants from Taste, or my last pint from the pub). Thinking of my trip as possibly the end of my time also got me thinking about the beginning of my time in St Andrews. I began making comparisons between the beginning and end of my time in the PhD program—the “bookends” so to speak. A few connections immediately began to present themselves, and I found the reflection very meaningful. But there’s one set of bookends in particular that I’d like to share with you all because I haven’t yet told too many people and I just really think I need to publicly thank God for his providence despite my complete silliness.
These bookends are my most stressful travel stories ever.
The first is my initial trip to the UK in September 2011 to begin my PhD studies. Prior to starting my studies I went out with my Mom to visit my sister and her husband in Cincinnati. After that I flew into Chicago to visit my friend Justin from college. Flying from Cincy to Chicago, I arrived at the Chicago Midway Airport. This was just meant to be a quick visit. I’d spend some time with my friend, see a bit of Chicago for the first time, and then head off to the UK. I had all of my stuff with me too. I had two massive duffle bags that were filled to capacity plus a computer bag and a backpack with far too much stuff packed in.
On the day that I was flying out my buddy and I went to Lincoln Park and then got on one of the trains that takes you straight to Midway. The train was slower than my friend had anticipated, given its many stops along the way. Once we arrived at the airport it was an hour and a half before my flight. I’m typically a far more punctual traveler (I prefer three hours early at least). With international flights especially one wants to arrive punctually. I knew that, but I wasn’t going to let it bother me, especially in front of my friend. As we walked through the airport I was looking for my airline, Virgin Atlantic. “Excuse me where’s the check in for Virgin Atlantic?” was the question I asked multiple employees of the airport as I casually strolled through. The responses I received were, “Oh I believe it’s on that end of the airport over there,” and then “I’m not entirely sure,” and then “Honey, you’re at the wrong airport.”
WHAT?!?!
Needless to say, I flipped out. I immediately grabbed my laptop to confirm my flight details. Three things are funny about this little move: [1] I totally should have done this earlier that day, but since I flew into Midway and I had never been to Chicago before I made the silly assumption that I was flying out of the same airport, [2] this was before I owned a smart phone so it had to be my laptop, [3] when I had arrived a few days before that I couldn’t connect to the WiFi while I was waiting for Justin to pick me up; somehow, thank you Jesus, I was able to connect instantly with no problems. Sure enough, I was meant to fly out of O’Hare.
Instantly, I jumped up and said goodbye to my friend in a slapdash manner. I ran outside and started frantically explaining to the nearest taxi driver that I’m at the wrong airport and my flight leaves in 90 minutes. The taxi driver threw my bags into the trunk and took off. I kept watching the clock. I just could not believe that I was most likely going to miss my flight to the UK—not a great way to start a PhD!
The drive to the freeway felt like an eternity; the traffic was incredibly congested and it felt like it we just sat there staring at the freeway. Once we finally got on the taxi driver sped off going well beyond the speed limit. Arriving at the airport there was only 45 minutes until my flight. I paid the taxi driver (a pretty penny I might add) and then rushed up to the Virgin Atlantic check in station. There was absolutely no one in line. Normally this is a welcome sign at the airport, but I knew it wasn’t good in this situation. I ran up to the lady at the counter, gave her my passport, and told her I was flying to London Heathrow. The lady looked at me incredulously, “Sir, you can’t show up to an international flight 45 minutes beforehand!”
At that moment I had a minor freak out and quickly zipped through my plight, “Please, oh my goodness, I went to Midway on accident and I’m supposed to be on the flight to London Heathrow to start my PhD!” The lady looked down and typed some stuff into her keyboard and brought in her boss. I frantically relayed the same message to me after he assured me I was too late for this flight. Then he made a quick and coded phone call. He grabbed my bags and strapped this weird orange tape all around them. He handed me my tickets and at that moment this dude in a suit walked up and told me to follow him. We cut through the massive queue at the security check-in and I made my way through the check point. I’m feeling immensely grateful at this moment, but then I hear over the intercom, “Last call for passenger John Dunne.”
I grabbed my stuff quickly and started running. Mind you, I’m an academic who’s not really been in shape since high school. On top of that my bags are overly packed to accommodate the weight restrictions on my check-in bags. And on top of that I’m also wearing extra items of clothing for this very same purpose. So despite all of this, I’m running as fast as I can towards my gate. And the gate just had to be at the absolute very end of the terminal. Honestly, it was such a long distance. I showed up at my gate and the airline employees were all scolding me. I walked onto the plane and took my seat feeling so exhausted and smelling so far from fresh. But I made it. I could not believe that I made it. At that moment I thought that this was the wildest travel experience I’ll ever have.
And it was.
That is, until it came time to fly back to Scotland for my viva—the oral defense of my thesis that marks the very end of the official PhD evaluation. I’ll save that story for next time.
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