JFK was its usual chaos — delays, long lines, and frustrated travelers. Then came her voice, loud and grating, slicing through the noise. A woman in a red coat was FaceTiming on speaker, unfazed by the world around her. Her tiny white dog squatted mid-terminal, ignored. When an older man kindly pointed it out, she snapped, “Mind your business, Grandpa.”
Gasps followed. Someone asked if she’d clean it. “They have people for that,” she said, walking off.
Later, at TSA, she cut the line, claiming PreCheck — in the wrong lane. She refused to take off her boots, threatened to sue, and let her dog bark at everything in sight. At the coffee stand, she berated a barista over almond milk, then blasted music from her phone with no headphones.
At Gate 22, she was sprawled across three chairs, still yelling into her phone. Her dog barked at a toddler until the family left. Everyone stared but stayed silent — except me. I sat next to her, calm and polite.
Eventually, I leaned in and said, “Hey, didn’t you hear? They moved the Rome flight to Gate 14B.” She didn’t question it. She packed up, yanked the dog’s leash, and stormed off cursing.
Silence followed. Then soft laughter. Relief rippled through the gate. A few smiles. A quiet thumbs-up. No one said it, but we all felt it: peace had returned.
Rome only leaves JFK once a day. Oops.
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