This is a long story -- but stick with me, it finishes well.

We were all rushing to get as much planted as we could before Thanksgiving – so I spent less time than usual packing and left the bulb farm in a rush to get to Austin. This year, my family was having Thanksgiving in Mexico and my girlfriend Katie (who was going with me) and I had to get to Houston Intercontinental by 4:00pm to make our 6:10 flight. As a final checklist, Katie started listing off everything she had packed: “Toiletries… camera… passport…” At “passport,” my heart sank.

"Crap. I forgot my passport in East Texas!" I saw the past twenty-four hours flash before my eyes and back to Mineola, TX, where I could picture my passport sitting right on top of my desk at the farm. I had taken it out of my glove compartment only to look at the prescription for malaria medicine I had tucked inside (for my upcoming trip through Central America, see Track Brad: Central America).

Since I wouldn’t be able to make it to the farm and back to Houston in time—a five-hour trip each way--we had to get creative to get over this hurdle and onto the plane bound for Mexico. In a mad rush, we looked online at every possible other form of identification useful for crossing the U.S./Mexico border. Fortunately, I had a copy of my birth certificate at my parents’ home in San Antonio – which was about 2.5 hours out of the way. I also went to a local bank and got a notarized, handwritten affidavit saying I was a U.S. citizen. On top of the notarized form and birth certificate, I had an expired driver's license, with an expired paper license (the state sent my renewed license to the wrong address and has failed to resend another one), my old (and expired) voter registration card, my Social Security card and a few other photo IDs and credit cards. Surely, I thought, some combination of these will get me through security.

One thing was for sure, it was going to be tight! We drove through San Antonio to retrieve my birth certificate from our files and on the way I called my dad and grandparents, who were expecting us to swing by for lunch in Houston before getting on the plane, to let them know we wouldn't be able to stop… We had to go straight to the airport in order to make our flight.

On the way, my brother called to let us know the cranberry sauce he was supposed to bring for our Tex-Mex Thanksgiving dinner had been confiscated by airport security. Now, despite our furious race to Houston Intercontinental, the family was counting on us to stop for the traditional cranberry sauce. Unwilling to face a Thanksgiving without the berry delight in a can, we promptly pulled into Schulenburg’s Oakridge Smokehouse, thinking surely we would find cranberry sauce amidst their entire wall of "jalapeno peach cinnamon jam" and "pomegranate blueberry honey butter" – but alas, none. Katie then asked one of the waitresses if there was anything in the back. "Yes," the woman said. "We have some two-gallon drums." We begged her to let us buy a smaller amount to take with us. After stopping to chat with several customers (our urgency was not conveyed, it seems), she emerged with two of the highly prized cans. We rushed to the register and placed them on the counter: "We're going to Mexico and need these for dinner – the waitress said we could buy them," I explained. With suspicious looks, they eyed the cans as if they were some strange objects from outer space. I smiled and offered them $0.75 per can. They returned the offer with only blank stares and then called over their "supervisor" at the other register. "These folks want to buy these cans," they said. The other lady slowly walked over and gave the cans the same perplexed stare. I could hear the metallic robot voice in her head chanting, "This does not compute! Whuup! Whuup!" The supervisor then grabbed the cans and began to lumber slowly to the back while muttering, "Well… hrmm… I'll have to check in the back, I guess..." Anxious about missing Thanksgiving, I finally spoke loudly, "I don't care how much it costs! How much do you want? Here," I shuffled through my wallet, "I've got $10!" The lady stopped in surprise and Katie thrust out two $1 bills – "Here's two dollars." The supervisor grumbled something about how the cans "probably cost more than that, but give it to 'em anyway" and we paid and ran out the door.

We then rushed the rest of the way to the airport, slowed only by Houston toll booths and traffic jams. We finally arrived at the airport, parked in an economy lot and boarded a shuttle to our terminal. Perfect. The plane leaves at 6:10 and it was 4:15. We were going to make it!

We waited in line, which went fairly quickly, and reached the electronic check-in. Katie slid her passport in the machine and got her boarding pass quickly, while I had to wait for an airline employee to check my paperwork. Our lady came over and looked over my birth certificate and driver's license. "This license is expired, sir" she said with irritation. I then handed her my expired paper license. She picked up the phone, not noticing the expiration date of the paper license, to call her supervisor to verify that it was an acceptable form of identification. After about five minutes of her discussing with her supervisor that my paper license says my renewed license will not expire until 2011 and me hoping she wouldn't notice the expiration of the paper license, she suddenly said, "Oh! Wait, this is expired too!"

At this point, I pulled out all the stops – my handwritten notarized note, my voter card, my credit cards, my health insurance – surely something would work! "She then gave me a phony frown and said, "I'm sorry, sir, you need a government photo ID – you're not getting on this flight."

I refused to believe it – so I pressed on, trying everything from asking for her supervisor to submitting to DNA testing before she finally screamed, "SIR, ARE YOU GOING TO LISTEN TO ME?" I stopped and said, "Sure."

"If you go out those doors and over the hill, there's a DPS office – if you get a new temporary license, we can put you on standby for the 9:15 flight." It was 4:40pm and the office closed at 5pm.

"Thank you!" I said, running out the door to hunt down a cab. All the taxis at the terminal were strictly for transporting people to their cars, not for leaving the airport. I BEGGED the lady in charge to let me hire a cab – and seeing the desperation in my eyes – she agreed to break the rules and let the driver take me to the DPS office. The driver, laughing at my story and responding in broken Pidgin English, reverted to West African driving rules while swerving between traffic and careening around corners.

I finally arrived at the DPS office not five minutes before the doors were locked, got in line and received my newly printed permission to cross international borders. I asked a DPS officer if he could call a cab for me, and he said it would be 10-15 minutes. While I stood outside waiting, I noticed an older man wearing an Aggie ring, with an "Association of Former Students" sticker on his back windshield. Something in my gut said I should ask this guy for a ride… so I walked up and said, "Sir, this may sound strange, but I'm class of 2004 and I'm trying to catch a flight…" Without hesitation, he said, "You need a ride to the airport?" I nodded my head. "Get in."

On the way to the airport, we talked about Aggieland and his three kids who all attended A&M. At this time Katie called, but I ignored my ringing phone, not wanting to be rude to my ride. But when she called again, I realized she was probably looking for more than a status report, so I answered. "Can you be here in less than five minutes – because the lady said we could make the 6:10 flight if you get here now!" "Sure, I'm on my way," I said.

You see, the airline official behind the counter had felt bad for snapping at me and meanwhile Katie won her over with her charm.

KATIE: I wish I could say it was charm that convinced Janie, the snappish airline attendant, to help us out. To be honest though, it had to have been pity that caused her to change her mind. As I sat on the floor next to an abandoned ticket counter, surrounded by our baggage, Janie approached me and informed me that our chances of getting onto the 9:15 flight were slim—it was totally booked. The flight after that didn’t leave until the next day, so Brad and I would likely be stuck in Houston for a night. I looked up at her towering over me, and at that point, I decided to unleash my arsenal of heartbreaking anecdotes from the day’s misadventures. Hardly pausing for breath, I let loose: My boyfriend left his passport in East Texas, we drove from Austin to San Antonio to Houston to make it here with everything, he had to cancel lunch with his grandparents, his brother is waiting for us on the plane right now, I have no idea what we’re going to do… Cranberry sauce…

With that, Janie softened. “I really want to get you kids on this flight.” The ball was in motion. Now if Brad could just get here soon, we’d be on our way.

Back to you, Brad.

To make a long story even longer, Janie decided to help us make the flight by contacting the Mexican border officials to get an authorization letter faxed to us stating that I had been approved to cross with a paper license.

At this time, the Good Ag and I mistakenly drove up the wrong terminal ramp and were caught in traffic. I turned to my Samaritan friend and said, "I'm sorry – but I have to get out and run." He looked surprised and as I stepped out of the car he yelled, "You're gonna get hit by a car!"

Katie: By this time, the five minutes Janie allowed us had passed, and she was growing impatient. As she rapped her fingernails on the ticket counter, she told me that it was too late after all. Even though we were the push of a button away from getting our boarding passes, security alone would hold us up well past our flight’s departure time. She suggested we just try for the next day’s flight. I assured her Brad was on his way, and pleaded with her not to cancel our seats.

But I didn't care – I was GOING to make this flight. It was no longer about the flight – this was a mission. I started sprinting up the correct terminal ramp, as cars passed me at over 40 mph. After about a quarter mile sprint, my phone started ringing and I answered only to hear Katie say, "She said if you're not here in 1 minute we're getting bumped back to the 9:15!" I still had about a quarter mile to go. "Tell her I'm sprinting and I'm almost to the doors!" Almost is a relative term anyway.

With little regard for life or limb, I darted between cabs and buses to the ticket counter just shy of the ticket lady’s "minute." The woman, much more polite this time around, and impressed with our teamwork and hustle, approved me and handed over the boarding pass.

With less than half-an-hour until takeoff, we rushed through security, boarded the inter-terminal train and sprinted to our gate, to see the last passengers boarding and my brother, who had been waiting for us, trying to convince the ticket counter to hold the flight.

Thankfully, we were safely on the 6:10 flight with no time to spare. And I vowed to never leave my passport again.