Dispatch from Denver

Even as the monkeypox epidemic roars and stomps and pounds at the window like some deranged, unwashed brute, the world runs straight past it, out their front doors and into their awaiting Uber, overstuffed backpacks strapped over their shoulders, roll-on luggage clattering in tow, storming toward the airport for a plane to take them anywhere but here. San Diego International Airport is absolutely buzzing.

Outside at the Arrivals drop-off area, all signs point to business as usual, but as soon as I step inside, I’m greeted by the tail end of a sprawling TSA queue, snaking around a matrix of roped corridors, up the long entrance ramp and out to the front door. If you don’t have TSA pre-check these days, it’s because you don’t travel much. It’s hard to conceive anybody who flies even occasionally not signing up for that program. Looping around the chattering horde, I spot the TSA pre-check line and slip in to the back for what turns about to be maybe a ten minute wait. Looking at the other line, I’d guess they’re looking at a half hour, minimum.

Rumours of staffing shortages have been confirmed time and again lately, but in San Diego, the airlines have things relatively in hand. Which is not to say there’s not a delay — they just handle it well. Word is that a minor equipment snafu will hold us up for a half hour, which ultimately proves accurate. Thankfully, my connecting flight in Denver is also delayed (no explanation offered by Bernadette, the bespectacled gate agent in a John Elway jersey), but just for good measure, Mother Nature smites us with a low-rate lightning storm — just enough menace to ground all flights for what has been forty-five minutes so far. We are now 90 minutes late and what scant confidence I had in making my European connection is eroding like a sand castle at high tide. Oh well. So it goes.

And there’s the announcement we’ve all been waiting for - time to go. Phew.