This journalism convention outing was no different.  If I learned one thing from my five days away, it would certainly be this:

   Never, ever, ever tick off a flight attendant.

   It was some ungodly hour at the George W. Bush Intercontinental Airport.  I stood by my chaperone and instructor, Mr. Karl Grubaugh, as we waited for the second leg of our flight back to California to arrive.  Grubaugh asked my fellow journalists and I to listen up, still wearing his usual demure expression.  I had no idea that anything was amiss.

   He told us that someone who had been on the flight from DC with us was complaining of a stolen carry-on, and asked us each to check our bags, and make sure they were indeed our bags. 

   I scoffed.  Of course it was my bag.  But to humor the man, I cast a glance down at my carry-on.

   At first, all I could do was laugh.  The large suitcase I had been wheeling around for 20 minutes or so belonged to someone else.  I’d stolen luggage.

   “Oh, uhm, yeah, this isn’t mine,” I told Grubaugh, giggling at my own stupidity.

   But Grubaugh didn’t smile – no, he scowled.  The realization hit me then.

   If I had someone else’s bag, someone else had my bag.

   Oh, crap.

   Grubaugh pointed down the endless airport hallway, screaming at me to run.  I obeyed, half-tripping on my stolen suitcase with every step.

   Now, it should be noted that my lack of physical agility is legendary.  It should also be noted that this was taking place around 4 a.m., and I had not had coffee for a good 24 hours.  I was a zombie, and, while one never expects this sort of thing to happen, I was especially unprepared.

   As I raced towards Terminal C17 (will I ever forget that number?), I heard footsteps echoing behind me.  Being the paranoiac I am even in dire situations, I spun around to face my attacker.

   It was my editor, who, to preserve what remains of her dignity, I will refer to as Pat.  I had put Pat through a lot during those five days, and this was merely her final trial.  I can’t believe Pat will still speak to me.

   Pat said that Grubaugh had asked for her to follow me, and why, I’ll never understand.  But I went along with it, and Pat and I raced together through the airport – well, as together as I could manage.

   When we reached Terminal C17, a strategically-positioned airport staff member waved us over.  We explained that I had taken the wrong carry-on, and I offered my apologies between breaths.

   Then, finally, salvation.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my bag.  My bag.  With my stuff.

   Being wheeled by the angriest, most furious, vengeful stewardess I have ever seen.

   Her eyes blazed with hatred, her face contorted in a grimace.   Her fist was clenched around the handle of my innocent wheeled suitcase, and she dragged it toward me like mobster dragging a corpse.  When she spoke, I could all but feel the venom dripping from each vicious syllable, the pent-up rage from thousands of annoying airline patrons suddenly being focused on me.

   “I’m so sorry,” I stammered.

   “Sorry won’t bring my stuff back, will it?”

   I exchanged glances with Pat, grabbed my bag, and ran, sheer terror giving me a second wind of still sub-par energy.   We were Indiana Jones, and the flight attendant that huge boulder.  If we hadn’t fled, we surely would have been crushed.

   I somehow made it back to the relative safety of Grubaugh’s troupe, out of breath but alive.  Pat was still in relatively good condition, though I’m sure she is as thoroughly traumatized by this as I am.

   Like any fable, this cautionary tale provides a lesson to be learned – specifically, that flight attendants are more dangerous on the ground than in the skies.