Aero Maybe

What’s the longest trip you’ve ever taken?

It was the mid-80s. I was fresh out of college. I had mile-high curly hair, a killer tan lingering from an entire summer spent at the beach and, in my hand, a plane ticket to Ixtapa, Mexico.

What could possibly go wrong?

Weeks earlier, my friend Maureen and I had spotted an ad in the back of Glamour magazine for a resort in Ixtapa. That’s how we found vacations back then, kids. There was no Expedia. No TripAdvisor. No Google reviews from Susan in Ohio complaining that the continental breakfast only had three kinds of muffins.

You flipped through a magazine, saw a picture of a palm tree and thought, Looks fabulous. Book it.

Maureen and I worked at The Big G—GEICO—before it exploded into the insurance giant it is today. Maureen was a Sales Supervisor and I was writing training manuals for Customer Service. Our regional supervisor’s husband, Morris Rosenberg, was a travel agent for a cruise line.

We told Morris we didn’t want a cruise, but could he hook us up with a resort?

A few days later, ten glossy, colorful brochures arrived at the office.

We studied them like we were choosing a new home.

Two weeks later, we were on a flight to Mexico for seven days of sun, unlimited drinks and as much fun as two New York girls in 1987 could possibly get into.

Again.

What could possibly go wrong?

The first few days are admittedly a blur. Severe sunburns. Tequila hangovers. Hair that somehow grew larger with every passing day.

It was glorious.

By Day Five, the burns had turned to tans and we were ready to resume our regularly scheduled programming.

Now, if you think I’m chatty, you should meet Maureen. This woman could charm the pants off you, interview you and somehow get you to reveal your deepest childhood trauma before you realized you had even told her your last name. She is a marvelous conversationalist.

We were early for dinner reservations one evening, so naturally we waited at the bar.

Another margarita?

Why yes. Thank you very much.

Sitting beside us was a mother and her two grown daughters. Small talk became more talk. They were from New Jersey. They all worked in New York City. Mom was a retired physician who had recently lost her husband, and her daughters had given her this trip as a gift.

They were great fun.

Twenty-one minutes later, they invited us to join them for dinner.

Naturally, we said yes.

Because who turns down a dinner invitation from complete strangers you’ve known for almost half an hour?

Somewhere around the clearing of the appetizers, we heard a roar.

Not just a noise.

A ROAR.

The loudest, deepest rumbling sound I had ever heard.

Maureen looked at me.

“Oh, that’s just the laundry cart rolling by outside.”

Que?

I rolled my eyes.

“Ladies, she’s loopy. It’s clearly a plane taking off.”

The airport was 90 minutes away.

Then the chandeliers started swaying.

Waiters suddenly appeared with our checks—even though our dinners hadn’t arrived.

“Señoritas,” they calmly explained in their best broken English. “There is an earthquake. Please exit onto the beach. You will need to walk the shoreline back to your hotel. Buenas noches.”

Que?

WHAT?

We bid adieu to Mama Doc and her flock and headed for the beach.

Very obedient travelers.

Just two New York chicks wandering along the shoreline during an earthquake in Mexico.

Completely normal.

I have no idea how long it took us to make it back to our resort, but eventually we arrived and found one of the pool bartenders.

“What is happening?”

He waved away our concern.

“As long as there is no crack in the swimming pool, everything is completely fine.”

Que?

WHAT?

Apparently, this was the Mexican Richter Scale.

No crack in the pool?

Carry on.

Our flight home was scheduled for the next day. Nobody had any information because, remember, this was 1987.

Cell phones?

What are they?

Somehow we made it to the airport the following day. How? No recollection whatsoever.

What I do remember is arriving to find—

No flights.

Because apparently an earthquake wasn’t enough excitement for one vacation.

Morris Rosenberg had booked us on AeroMexico for the trip home. Direct flight to JFK. Perfect.

Except the airline workers had decided that the very first day of their strike would also be the very day of our departure.

Of course they did.

Hours later, we were placed on another AeroMexico flight that “might” leave.

Maureen immediately renamed the airline:

Aero Maybe.

We shuffled down the counter to American Airlines, where an agent typed into a computer roughly the size of my current kitchen and eventually produced boarding passes for a 2:00 a.m. flight to Dallas.

They gave us hotel and transportation vouchers AND a free domestic flight to use within the next year.

Boom.

Done.

We had hours to kill, so we took the shuttle to the hotel across the street, showered, freshened up and then wondered what two responsible young women should do until their 2:00 a.m. flight.

Our feet took us downstairs to the bar.

Naturally.

There we found a whole group of people booked on our flight.

We had a drink.

Then two.

Then the tequila shots started.

I swear, if cell-phone cameras had existed in 1987, I would STILL be a viral TikTok video.

That hotel bar erupted into a party that rivaled anything I had witnessed in college.

Dancing on the bar.

Singing.

Swan diving into crowds of people.

Crowd surfing.

And I’m pretty sure this was before karaoke was even a thing.

My next clear memory is waking up in seat 24D beside a guy named Mike Kelley who worked in New York City.

Maureen was two rows behind me with some German businessman named Karl.

Que?

WHAT?

I looked at my watch.

The sun was coming up.

We were still on the tarmac.

It was 6:00 a.m.

Our 2:00 a.m. flight had never left.

Apparently, the plane needed a part for the air conditioner.

Then came the captain.

“Folks, our crew needs to have this part installed. Shouldn’t be much longer.”

Oh my.

Four hours later?

Still on the tarmac.

No deplaning.

Just sitting there.

Finally, around 11:00 a.m., the seatbelt sign came on.

I looked toward the stewardesses—yes, they were still called stewardesses then—and watched them make the Sign of the Cross before fastening their seatbelts.

Excellent.

Very reassuring.

At that exact moment I thought:

I am not going to live to see 23.

Mike Kelley woke up with drool on his golf shirt.

Maureen and Karl were still deep in conversation.

And somehow, miraculously, we landed in Dallas.

Where another announcement awaited us.

There was no crew available to process the international passengers.

So we would continue on to Chicago.

Of course we would.

At this point, one thought finally hit me.

How will my parents know I’m alive?

Surely the earthquake had made the news back home.

There were no cell phones. No texting. No Find My Friends. No “Marked Safe on Facebook.”

Just my parents somewhere on Long Island wondering where in God’s name their daughter was while I toured the United States with Mike Kelley, Karl and Aero Maybe.

Long story longer, our plane finally arrived at JFK approximately two and a half days after our journey home had begun.

We were crispy.

Exhausted.

Beyond dehydrated.

Maureen’s father, a retired NYPD officer, picked us up at the airport. My parents met me at Maureen’s house.

And because we were young and apparently indestructible—

we went to work the next day.

When we saw our supervisor, we launched into the story.

The earthquake.

The airline strike.

The hotel-bar Olympics.

The broken airplane.

Dallas.

Chicago.

The missing two and a half days of our lives.

She stared at us blankly.

Not an ounce of sympathy.

Then, in the finest Long Island accent imaginable, she shrugged and said:

“So? So you saw a lot more of America than you wanted to. So what?”

Nearly forty years later, Maureen and I still howl over that line.

And maybe that really is the moral of the story.

Travel teaches you things. It broadens your horizons. It introduces you to new people, new cultures and new experiences. Sometimes it even introduces you to Mike Kelley in Seat 24D and a German businessman named Karl.

But most importantly, I learned that when life throws you an earthquake, an airline strike and a broken airplane all in one vacation, there is really only one important question to ask:

Is there a crack in the pool?

No?

Perfect.

Another margarita, please.