Nowhere is this phrase more apt or literally applied than to the prospect of stand-by air travel, international air travel in particular. The reality of sitting at a gate in Atlanta or New York uncertain until the last minute whether you’ll get on that flight to London, Paris or Madrid can reach that moment of crisis akin to standing over a trap door with a noose around your neck, but still hoping to hear from the governor. It’s worse if you’re in London, París or Madrid and hoping to get back home.

   It starts out as an exciting experience,  the sense of being selected out of the audience to compete on The Price is Right is palpable. Over time, though, it can feel more like an episode of Survivor, and you’re dreading that moment when the tribal council votes you off the island.

Perhaps the severe weather necessitated a repositioning of inventory, but this cozy 2 p.m. departure had something like 127 open seats, two of which found us flying first class and dining on braised short ribs (me) and roasted chicken (Carol) instead of the sausage and egg biscuit we’d brought aboard for the trip.

   I’ve been at it for almost 15 years now, and I still sit there at the gate waiting anxiously to hear either the voice of Bob Barker or Jeff Probst. That it’s been by far Bob’s voice is the reason I still do it. 

   That’s not to say the peaks and valleys are any less steep and even more slippery when there’s a travel companion in the mix, as Carol has been for the last eight years. And this last trip from Santa Ana to Madrid seemed the peakiest and most valleyed yet.

   The two weeks or so leading up to our departure date tested the limits of flexibility. Since our ultimate destination is a little town at the southern tip of Spain called Rota, the most efficient point of entry for us is Madrid. During these weeks, though, dwindling seat availabilities had us bouncing back and forth among Madrid, Barcelona and even Paris. Combined with wave after wave of severe weather wreaking havoc on air travel, and it looked more and more like we’d be handed a torch rather than a chance to guess the price of a RAV 4.

   Eventually the best course was to fly into Atlanta on a Saturday, stay over and then spend Sunday afternoon and evening watching the availabilities among flights to Madrid, Barcelona or two flights to Paris. 

   But the kind of good fortune that keeps you in the stand-by game unfolded like a genie out of a lamp. First off, a flight to Atlanta that Saturday afternoon popped up out of nowhere. Perhaps the severe weather necessitated a repositioning of inventory, but this cozy 2 p.m. departure had something like 127 open seats, two of which found us flying first class and dining on braised short ribs (me) and roasted chicken (Carol) instead of the sausage and egg biscuit we’d brought aboard for the trip.

   Maybe unsettled storm fronts had something to do with it, but our flight landed in Atlanta almost an hour and a half early, which quite suddenly opened up a razor thin possibility of flying out to Madrid that night. That genie would have to combine all three wishes into one to pull it off though.

   We quickly listed ourselves for what appeared to be the last two available seats on the 9:50 departure. It was too close to that time to allow for check-in, however. No harm in trying at the gate at this point so we hauled a** to the concourse and arrived as they were completing boarding. Sadly they told us they could not check us in either, and so we shrugged our way back to the down escalator to the shuttle train and the airport exit. On the way down Carol happened to see an email confirming our listing on the Madrid flight. It was worth a shot, and we hauled a** back onto the up escalator and back to the gate, where an exceedingly gracious agent cheerfully booked us into Comfort +. Turns out that unsettled weather affected inbounds to Atlanta and our flight was light by about 60 seats and probably explained why the agent could afford to be as accommodating as he was.

   There is no silver lining without a dark cloud, though, and as we settled into our seats (and provided the flight attendant with our preference for the pasta) Carol discovered her phone missing. In the frantic moments of our last-minute boarding it had gotten misplaced. The entire crew set about the task of locating it, while helpful seatmates suggested various find-your-phone apps that we only vaguely understood. Even the captain left the cockpit to join in the search.

   At the very moment that they closed the cabin door and Carol had given up all hope, an attendant looked down at an empty seat just ahead of us, picked something and asked, “whose phone is this?”

   The prize package didn’t end there. Another attendant then approached us and said, “you two hit the jackpot, and escorted us to 1b and c in Delta One.

   This time I had the chicken.