Underdressed in Amarillo

(Reprinted from a previously published diary)

Yesterday, I had to make a last minute flight to Amarillo. Fortunately, the company-owned business plane was already scheduled to go that direction, so I just had to show up at the local airport by 7:00 a.m. and step on board. The plane is a twin engine turboprop, a KingAir by name. Despite the fact that the price tag on a craft like this would make your jaw drop, most people classify this as a small plane. Since I am somewhat of an aviation buff, I was excited to make my maiden voyage. The morning air was crisp, but I was comfortable in my suit jacket as I made my way from the hangar to the steps of the KingAir. As I put my jacket into the wardrobe, I pushed aside a number of large overcoats without a thought.

The takeoff was smooth, and soon, we were cruising at just under 30,000 feet. I settled back, not really sure how long the flight would take. For those of you unfamiliar with Texas geography, suffice it to say that it can take a lot of lead to draw a pencil line from a town on one side of Texas to a town on the other side. Two and a half hours and over 450 miles later, we touched down in Amarillo. I stood and stretched as the pilot walked by on his way to open the door. “You want to be careful on the walk to the terminal,” he said as he donned a fur-lined parka. “We have an ice storm out there, and the pavement is going to be slick,” he added as he reached to unlatch the door. The door opened, and the cabin was immediately filled with a biting, chilling wind that made us all shiver. I stood in what must have been stunned amazement as I peered out the open door. My coworkers suited up with their heavy overcoats and hats and scarves. As one of the men handed me my suit jacket, he asked where I had put my overcoat. Sheepishly, I admitted that I did not have a coat.

Have you ever uttered a sentence that seemed to stop time? Everyone in the plane stopped and turned to look at me. Their expressions ranged from abject pity to stifled amusement, and I just stood there feeling a bit like I had forgotten not just an overcoat, but every other stitch of clothing. I stayed in the plane until all others had disembarked, and then, I stepped slowly toward the door. As soon as my foot hit the stairs, the gusty wind turned into an icy, steady force. I flipped up the collar of my suit jacket in a meager attempt to shield myself from the frozen precipitation that scratched against my cheeks. “Be very careful,” the parka-shorn pilot cautioned from the bottom of the stairs. “It’s an ice rink out here.”

I buried my hands in the pockets of my jacket and hugged myself to contain my warmth. I scuffled along toward the terminal, my leather soles feeling like ball bearings on oil. I tucked my chin against my chest, relying on the boot-covered feet in front of me to guide me safely forward. Finally, I made it to the terminal. One of my coworkers opened the door for me, and I stepped into the relative warmth of the building. I glanced behind the service counter to see my reflection in a decorative mirror. I was fully covered by a blanket of ice crystals. Even my hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes shone with a winter sparkle. My nose and ears glowed bright red, and my cheeks shined from the wind-burn. Suddenly, I realized that, despite the fact that dozens of people were crowding the terminal, no one was speaking. Off in the distance, I heard a stifled chuckle, and the woman behind the counter smiled. She reached under the counter and produced a box of tissues. She held back her laugh just long enough to ask, “Is this your first time in Amarillo?”