Tight connections can quickly transform a planned calm journey home into an Olympic-level challenge, writes Miriam Kimvangu.
Image: Miriam Kimvangu
The sprint began somewhere between Gate B and my dignity. I had pictured my journey home from Ålesund as the gentle final chapter of a lovely winter trip to visit my parents. You know the kind. Calm airport energy. A coffee in hand. Perhaps a touch of smug satisfaction at having packed efficiently and arrived at the airport unnecessarily early. After a few weeks on the coast of Western Norway, surviving a snowstorm and a brief but dramatic bout of sickness, I felt I had earned a smooth ride home to Cape Town. Instead, I ended up reliving my track-and-field career.
Ålesund is the kind of place that feels almost suspiciously picturesque. Colourful buildings line the harbour, the mountains loom quietly in the background, and when the snow falls, the entire town seems to exhale. It was my first visit, and I’d say besides the blank look on my face when anyone tried to speak to me in Norwegian, I blended right in. Long walks along icy streets. Cosy cafés. And salmon. So much salmon.
By the end of my trip, my suitcase had reached a state I can only describe as ambitious. Wool sweaters, gifts, a worrying amount of Norwegian chocolate, things I probably didn’t need from my childhood boxes, but decided to keep anyway. I packed everything happily, assuming that future me would deal with the consequences.
The itinerary seemed manageable enough. Fly from Ålesund to Oslo, continuing to Stockholm, where I could remain on the plane, then settle in for the long flight to Addis Ababa before finally landing back in Cape Town. Simple.
Except for one small detail.
As it was during the holidays, there was exactly one flight leaving Ålesund that day.
Miss it, and the entire plan would collapse like a poorly stacked IKEA shelf.
The first leg to Oslo was a breeze, and I sat there feeling quite pleased with myself, frequent flyer instincts fully activated. Connections carefully timed. What could go wrong?
The answer, of course, was everything.
The moment we landed in Oslo, and I finished up at the tax-free desk, I noticed the time and realised my comfortable connection had quietly transformed into something closer to an athletic event. Suddenly, I was running. Not a power walk. Not the polite airport shuffle. Sprinting. The truly shocking part was that my body remembered how to do it. I graduated from high school nearly a decade ago, but apparently those muscle memories were waiting for their moment. Unsurprisingly, though, I made the connection.
I always win in the end.
In Stockholm, I stayed on the plane, trying to regain my composure and pretending that I had always planned to arrive at the gate looking like I had just completed a 100-metre sprint.
I truly thought I was in the clear, but Murphy had other plans for me, because if Oslo was the warm-up, Addis Ababa was the championship round. The connection window was tight, and I once again found myself running through an airport with the determination of someone chasing an Olympic medal.
By the time I reached the gate, I was breathless and fairly certain I had just beaten my high school mile time. If anyone had handed me a medal at that moment, I would have accepted it without question.
Eventually, many hours later, the plane began its descent into Cape Town. The familiar outline of Table Mountain appeared beneath the wing, and I allowed myself to relax for the first time all day. The
race was finally over…?
At the baggage carousel, I waited patiently as suitcases rolled past. One by one, passengers collected their bags and drifted away. Mine, however, had apparently decided it needed a longer holiday.
Eventually, the carousel stopped. The airline staff confirmed what I had already suspected. My luggage had not made it onto the flight. So there I sat, once again waiting for the next plane to arrive, and eventually, my suitcase appeared like a slightly embarrassed guest arriving late to a party.
Would I do it again?
Never.
Then again, travel has a way of making you forgive these things.
So, the next time you plan a travel route that saves a little money but involves multiple connections, take a moment to consider the possibility that you may accidentally enter an Olympic qualifying event between terminals.
And if that happens, you might want to be prepared.
Next time I travel, I’m bringing an inhaler. And my track shoes.
Article extracted from Getaway April/May 2026
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