Forget your waking hour, take the early flight

In recent years I had forgotten my own travel advice. After Frontier Airlines did away from a dawn-departing flight from Nashville, I had increasingly picked flights leaving later in the day.

After a work conference in Las Vegas, that led to a seven boring hours in Las Vegas' McCarran International Airport. The flight was even worse; the woman next to me thought drinking large amounts of alcohol might help her through her first flight ever. It only resulted in her emptying her stomach's contents, then dry-heaving the rest of the way.

 I even switched seats with her equally drunken friend. From the front of the plane, every half-attempt at sleeping was interrupted by her Cookie Monster noises filling yet another air sickness bag. The flight landed in Nashville somewhere near 2 a.m. and I had to wake Nancy from a sound sleep to collect me.

Sometimes I don't learn. This was such a time. I wanted a direct flight. That is not always the quickest way to return home. That worked fine coming back from Los Angeles in November; less than four hours breezed by, even in a middle seat. Coming back from Orlando, I had a few options: one shortly after the conference ended, another in the evening.

I signed up for the late flight counting on enough debriefings after conference coverage. I could not have been more mistaken. It ended and everyone turned for the exits. No debriefing was scheduled. Barely any goodbyes were uttered.

Out of my room, I high-tailed it for the lobby and their free wi-fi. I could work while the airline delays mounted. Before arriving in Orlando, this flight bounced from Fort Myers to Indianapolis to Kansas City then back to Florida.

My boss gave approval to stay another day rather than chance the airlines. Once colleague went ahead and returned to Nashville sometime after 1 a.m. I joined two others in staying one extra night in Orlando. I traded the last flight out for the next day's first direct flight to Nashville while the others waited for later direct flights.

That night barely amounted to anything. I bunkered down in my room for a few hours of work, walked the second hotel's 19 flights twice, wandered the pedestrian-unfriendly boulevard nearly Universal Studios Florida, and had a grouper sandwich and two glasses of Merlot while two sleazebag businessmen next to me rattled off some shaky reasons for cheating on their wives when traveling, After a call to Nancy, I tucked in so I would make my flight.

Even at 5 a.m., a van pulled up the moment I walked outside. The driver's back route to the airport skipped most of the toll roads. Check-in, security and one last trip in the airport monorail breezed by.

At Orlando International, lines for McDonalds and Starbucks both exceeded 50 people, making the concourse almost impassable at points. Smaller breakfast places fared better. The breakfast lines did not carry over to the sparsely populated seating areas by the gates.

When I changed flights, I immediately checked in and received a surprisingly good spot in the B-group. The early morning flight effectively had no C-group. Anyone who wanted an aisle or window had a seat of separation.

The flight was barely memorable. The clouds parted in southern Georgia, mapping out the sprawl of Atlanta all the way to the foothills of the Blue Ridge peaks. I could trace the shorelines of Lake Lanier, just miles from my parents' house.  Georgia gave way to the empty interior of Tennessee. The hills had not take on the verdant hues of spring. But they passed quickly enough as the plane descended into Nashville. 

This doesn't work on every flight. Our upcoming El Paso trip had an earlier option, with a second stop and the same connecting flight. The early flight hops across Texas and connects with the same Austin-El Paso leg. Either way, you get to El Paso no sooner than 1:25 p.m.

Now, whenever I can I'm back on the early shift. I'll take my sleep in fits and starts 30,000 feet above the fruited plains.