Men are from Mars because they missed the flight to Venus. When to leave for the airport has always been a subject that my wife and I have viewed from different perspectives—my view: late enough to make it exciting; my wife's view: early enough to allow for a traffic jam, a flat tire, airport shopping, and a full course meal before the flight.
For years I left for airports without allowing for any spare time and never missed a flight.
About eighteen months ago, I moved to Martha's Vineyard, where the travel time to the airport can be accurately estimated because of the limited traffic off-season and because the airport is so small—sort of like the one in the one in the old TV series Wings, only smaller.
(At least it was when I began this book; a new airport has since opened.)
One morning, only a few months after we had moved to Martha's Vineyard, my wife, Jo Ann, and I were scheduled to fly to Boston.
I was so cocky about the predictability of getting to the airport on time that I left our house—approximately a twenty-minute drive away—only thirty- five minutes before the scheduled departure time.
The drive took a few minutes longer than expected, due to being stuck behind a slow driver on the no-passing, single-lane road; I realized
I had cut it just a little bit too tight.
