LaGuardia Airport, New York. I was waiting for a plane while my wife was at Starbucks purchasing $12 coffee.

Twelve bucks for coffee. I wish I was joking. My father would be rolling in his grave.

My old man could squeeze three dimes out of a quarter. Whenever we went to McDonald’s, he backed his truck into the drive-thru so the cashier would be on my side.

I’m just grateful my old man was gone before they came out with artisan bottled water. He would’ve never survived artisan bottled water.

There was an announcement overhead. An airline employee with an unintelligible, spit-intensive French accent was announcing that our plane terminal was changing. He was difficult to understand. But the spittled message came through: Our new terminal was now located on the other side of the airport.

Everyone looked at each other with The Look.

You know The Look. It’s a look of dread. A look you exchange with fellow humans during times of distress; times when you realize that a major institution views you, personally, as livestock. You see this look a lot at the DMV.

“We have to walk across the whole [deleted] airport?” remarked one New Yorker.

“Are they [deleted] serious?” said another.

“Those [deleted] [deleteds].”

LaGuardia International Airport is not small. It’s about the size of a rural voting district. It’s not easy to go anywhere in a hurry.

And so it was, hundreds of passengers hurriedly gathered our baggage, roller luggage, backpacks, carry-ons, grandmothers, etc. And we schlepped across the airport like the Children of Israel.

Ours was not a fast-moving group. We had a lot of baggage. One lady was carrying a Yorkshire terrier in a travel kennel. At one point, the lap dog and I made eye contact. If the dog could have talked, I think it would have said, “I haven’t peed since Nebraska.”

We crossed one moving walkway after another until we arrived at our gate. Passenger morale had dropped considerably. People were out of breath. Complaining. Cussing. Some were massaging bare feet.

We waited for several minutes until it was evident something was wrong. We knew this because airline employees were holding official powwows, nervously glancing over their shoulders at us chickens.

Those of you familiar with situational comedy know what happened next. There was another announcement overhead.

Same French guy. Same inscrutable, sputum-heavy accent. He said the airline had changed our gate again.

Within minutes, we were riding moving walkways once more. Making our way across the Red Sea.

When we arrived at our new gate, we were back where we’d started.

The French guy announced that our plane was now ready for takeoff. People cheered. One old woman actually cried. I believe the Yorkshire terrier also shed some water.

“Would you like another coffee before takeoff?” I asked my wife.

“Sure,” she replied, “but I thought you said airport coffee was too expensive.”

“Right now, I’m so exhausted I don’t care how much it costs.”

So I walked to the cafe counter. I ordered two 12-buck coffees.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said the cashier. “We’re out of coffee. Would you like some artisan bottled water?”