This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2015, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.

Somewhere in London • There's a saying here in London: "Mind the gap." It refers mainly to the space between an underground train car and the station platform.

Note — I've heard it used in reference to the distance between what a member of Parliament is thinking and actual reality. Anyway, it's a gap.

We had to mind a lot of gaps just getting to the country where the statement is in vogue. There were lots of them.

In fact, I can't believe we made it here. There were so many changes and stops along the way that every one of them felt like pulling a slot machine handle on a transporter machine.

We arrived at the Salt Lake City International Airport two hours before check-in, just as they said we should. And a good thing we did, because we then had four hours to read most of the books we had brought along for the plane ride.

The idea was to fly us to Philadelphia, layover for two hours, then catch a red-eye flight to London's Heathrow Airport. Couldn't have been simpler, right?

We spent the two-hour layover we were supposed to have in Philly in Salt Lake City. The weather in Pennsylvania was horrible. Too dangerous to fly in — depending on the precise moment you wanted to leave.

At one point, we actually boarded the plane, taxied out onto the runway — and stopped. In a voice that sounded as if he were fully aware it might be his last words, the captain announced that someone had changed their mind about the weather, and we would be returning to the gate and our books.

Not everyone was happy with this — and behaved accordingly. I was one of them. The additional layover would cause us to miss our flight to London.

We complained to the desk agent. Being the trouper she was, she ignored our weeping and gnashing and rerouted us through Atlanta.

We ran — RAN — to another terminal and got on the flight just in time. We accomplished this by leaping the 2-foot gap between the boarding chute and the doorway of the departing aircraft.

But we were safe aboard the Atlanta flight, which would deliver us there in plenty of time to catch another London flight. My wife said, "Just look at it as an adventure."

HA! — with a double measure of sarcasm. Upon arrival at Atlanta — or, more precisely, 15,000 feet over Atlanta — it was necessary to circle the airport for half an hour because "the airport was really crowded."

When we finally landed, we had to wait another 30 minutes for the aircraft occupying our gate to back its fat ass out of the way so we could get in.

We missed our London flight by four minutes. With our luggage on its way to Philly, us stuck in Atlanta and reservations waiting in London, there was one final resort. A direct appeal to God.

My wife suggested we pray. I wanted to sacrifice a dozen airport employees to Frustrato, God of Delays, atop an altar of bloody luggage. We compromised and called our travel agent.

When she answered the phone, Collette gave us the best travel advice we received.

"I know you're mad, but whatever you do, don't take it out on the desk agent. They are the last hope you have."

Collette was right. When we went back to the riot at the gate desk, we kept our cool. Finally, a desk agent motioned us forward. We described our experience as softly as possible. Half an hour later, we were in the air and headed for London.

We made it, and learned a valuable lesson along the way. It's not who you know, it's how you behave.

Robert Kirby can be reached at rkirby@sltrib.com orfacebook.com/stillnotpatbagley.