The Full Suburban: Layover in L.A. has left its mark

When traveling by air, some people like to make a mini-vacation out of their layovers. They’ll do anything to squeeze every little bit of time out of whatever city they happen to find themselves in at the time. I am not one of those people.

I was reminded of this fact during our recent family vacation when we found ourselves with several hours to kill before boarding our flight back to Spokane. Granted, we were in Cleveland, so the allure of “seeing the fantastic sights” wasn’t extremely strong.

But still, there are cool things to be found in every city, and I wondered if we should seize the opportunity to find something to do before heading home. It would make our morning more hectic, but possibly more memorable, as well.

“No, Julia,” my inner voice cautioned. “Nothing good ever comes from wandering willy nilly through an unfamiliar city when there’s a flight to be caught.” “You’re absolutely right, Inner Voice,” I replied. “Remember what happened in Los Angeles?”

“Do I ever!” my inner voice said. “That’s the day that completely ruined the chance of you or anyone with you doing anything outside an airport during a layover – ever.”

Let me clue you in on what happened in Los Angeles: It was early 2001, and my brother Jonathan and I were flying back to school at Brigham Young University after attending our great-grandfather’s 100th birthday party in Southern California.

When Jonathan, an adventure-at-all-costs kind of guy, realized that we would have a four-hour layover in Los Angeles, he jumped at the opportunity. “Let’s get a cab and go to the beach!” he said as we deplaned at LAX. “We’ve got four hours to kill – that’s like an eternity!”

“No way,” I said, all too familiar with Jonathan and his far-fletched plans. “I know exactly how this will end: You’ll lose track of time, won’t be able to find a cab back and will miss the flight entirely.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, leaving me sitting comfortably at the gate with a book as he headed toward the exit doors. “I’ll see you in four hours. I promise!”

I bought myself an overpriced frozen yogurt and enjoyed my quiet reading time immensely. It wasn’t until about 30 minutes before we were to board the plane – and no Jonathan in sight – that I began to stress.

I looked around anxiously every few minutes hoping for a glimpse of my brother. Finally, just as I was about to board, Jonathan came running down the hallway, handed his ticket to the agent and followed me down the jetway.

“I told you I’d make it!” he said triumphantly. “I went to the beach, put my bare feet in the sand, smelled the sea air – it was amazing!”

We settled into our seats and had just gotten our carry-on bags situated when a flight attendant approached our row and asked Jonathan to follow her. “What’s this about?” Jonathan asked as he got up. “Just a little issue with your ticket,” she replied. “Not a big deal.”

“Here, Jules,” Jonathan said, turning around and tossing me the keys to the car we shared at school. “Just in case.” We both thought he was making a joke, but no.

They took him off the plane and shut the doors behind him, leaving his bewildered little sister to arrive in downtown Salt Lake City at midnight with no recollection of where her brother had parked the car, and a near-empty gas tank to boot.

Yes, I cried. Yes, I silently cursed my brother’s previously mentioned penchant for far-fetched plans. And, yes, I railed against the unfairness of the universe when I heard from Jonathan the next morning.

“Apparently, I hadn’t checked in more than 10 minutes before the plane was going to leave, so they booted me off for some standby passengers,” he said. “But mom got the airline to pay for a hotel room, so I had a great night.

“I watched a movie, read the newspaper this morning and just finished eating the free hotel breakfast. I’m about to get on the next flight out of L.A. Can you pick me up at the airport in four hours?”

The universe isn’t fair, and I’ve never looked at a layover without suspicion again. Sorry, Cleveland – your exotic sights will just have to wait.

Julia Ditto shares her life with her husband, six children and a random menagerie of farm animals in Spokane Valley. She can be reached at dittojulia@gmail.com.