Headed to the airport? Call an Uber, not a friend - Ervolino

It’s all fun and games until someone asks you to take them to the airport.

On a weekday morning. In the winter. In the dark.

We’ve all been there: A friend or a relative has to catch a plane somewhere for a …

Vacation? Conference? Wedding? Whatever.

That is what happened to me last Friday.

My friend Troy was heading off to some seminar in Arizona. Since he lives in Sussex and was leaving from Newark Liberty, he asked if he could stay at my house the night before his flight and leave his car in my driveway.

“That would be a big help,” he said. “Then I could just take an Uber to the airport.”

Now, I know the correct thing to say would have been, “Yes, Ubers are so comfortable and reliable.”

But, instead, I said, “Don’t be silly. I can take you. No problem. What time is your flight?”

“9:10 a.m.,” he said.

“OK, that sounds fine,” I replied, until I did the math.

“So we have to leave the house around 7 o’clock?” I asked.

“Well, actually, they want you to be at the airport three hours before.”

They do?

I subtracted three from nine. Then, I subtracted another hour from that. Then …

“Actually,” he said, “if we could leave at 6, I think that would be fine.”

Now, I know the correct thing to say at this point would have been, “Yes, Ubers are so comfortable and reliable.”

But, instead, I said “Cool.”

Now, in case you’re wondering, I can get up at 5:30 a.m. if I absolutely have to. But I can’t get up at 5:30 a.m. and do anything.

I need a few hours to wake up. I need coffee. I need to read the morning news. I need six or seven trips to the bathroom.

And then there’s the dog, who sees me running around and panting and dressing in the dark and assumes the house is on fire.

“Charly, don’t worry. Everything’s fine. Daddy is starting his new job this morning as host of the 'Today' show.”

I went through all this a year ago, when my neighbor Sergio asked if I could take him to the airport so he could catch a flight to Colombia.

“Sure,” I said — good neighbor that I am. “What time?”

“I’d like to leave by 3:30,” he said.

A.M.

I didn’t need to do math for that one. Leaving at 3:30 a.m. meant waking up at 2:30 a.m. which meant not going to sleep.

Complication: I dropped Sergio off at his terminal, found my way out of the airport and then got a phone call. From Sergio.

“Calling from a pay phone,” he said. “Did I leave my cellphone in the car?”

He’s kidding, right?

Long story short, I found his phone, turned around, met him at the terminal and then got back on the road.

Getting out of the airport is an ordeal under the best of circumstances. But I was getting sleepy and I made a wrong turn and wound up God-knows-where.

This is why I hate getting lost, especially in the United States. When you get lost driving around Italy, Spain or Belgium, you stumble upon quaint fairy-tale villages with babbling brooks and lush gardens.

When you get lost in America, you discover cannibals and the Manson family and feral children who live in abandoned refrigerators in the woods.

I found my way home, eventually. And I didn’t return to the airport until my recent schlep with Troy — which presented its own unique problems.

As I was heading for Route 3, groggy and barely able to see through my cloudy windshield, I turned on the radio and heard, “Water main break closes Route 3.”

Good grief.

Then, as I recalculated my way to the airport, my FUEL LOW light popped on.

SERIOUSLY?

So there I was: lost, groggy, unable to see and running on fumes as Troy yelled directions. Left! Right! Over there! Turn! Turn!

Despite the odds, I made it to the airport. And, since I was heading back to my house in Wood-Ridge without a co-pilot, Troy suggested I use my GPS.

It never occurred to me that a GPS would be able to guide me out of the airport’s maze of twists and turns, but it did. Almost. Until I got to the sports complex.

I made a right instead of a left and wound up at American Dream. I’ve still never been inside the place, but driving under it was surprisingly pleasant.

That wrong turn, followed by another wrong turn, proved expensive. I think I paid the same toll three times.

I eventually found a gas station, filled up my tank and then drove home to my dog, who obviously wanted to go outside for an adventure.

I called her an Uber.

This article originally appeared on NorthJersey.com: Headed to the airport? Call an Uber, not a friend - Ervolino