As soon as we learned that the flight to Syracuse would be cancelled, everyone, like beavers in the wild, promptly began building what appeared to be little campsites in the gate area. Rolled-up jackets became pillows; newspapers and magazines functioned as makeshift blankets. One man, lucky enough to have an actual blanket with him, stretched it between two banks of chairs, fashioning a cozy tarp for himself and his wife. It was impossible not to be jealous of them. Two people had a terse exchange after one person’s newspaper-blanket crept over into the “campsite” staked out by another person.

Only a few minutes ago we were all enjoying our Mounds bars, consuming bottles of Fiji water, and shopping for this month’s issue of Dwell. Now? It was borderline Lord of the Flies in here. Only in airports can you have a Coach leather goods store selling $1,000 handbags a mere 10 yards away from a man taking an impromptu bath–shirt off, water splashing into his armpits, the whole thing–in a restroom sink.

I knew this kind of thing would happen to me someday, knew that, on one of these cross-country holiday flights, I’d have to endure one of these cliched strandings that always get reported on the morning news, complete with video footage of travelers looking dazed and cursed, their hair flying all over their heads. This year, I would be one of those travelers.

A few other questions floated out there in the void. I thought: What if I never get home? What if this plane never takes off? What if I’m here…forever? These were completely crazy questions, I knew. But trust me, the mind tends to jump its tracks when it’s midnight, and you’re halfway across the country, and you’re sleeping next to a shuttered Brookstone.

Then, just as everyone in the gate area seemed to have made their peace with being here for the night, the P.A. above our heads crackled to life. A man’s frantic voice informed us that there had been a last-minute gate change, and that flight number 4215 to Syracuse, New York would now be taking off from gate 2. “And yes,” the man’s voice added, “I did say the words, ‘your flight is now taking off.’ ”

A whoop went up in the campsite. No kidding, two people hugged and cried. Everyone climbed to their feet and began frantically packing up their belongings. It seemed we would be going home after all.

Fifteen days into 2012, and I’ve reached level 2-3 in Donkey Kong (Game Boy, 1994). Today’s level takes place in a single, self-contained gameplay space. In other words: the screen never scrolls to reveal more screen. As the level beings, I’m standing right next to the key and the locked door. Unfortunately, the locked door is on the far side of a barrier that must be lifted/removed before I can reach it. This level also introduces me to a new enemy: the stationary, spitting piranha plant, one of Mario’s greatest nemeses. There are two piranha plants positioned on the left side of the screen, both spewing death-dealing projectiles in unison that carve their way across the screen. Also, there are a series of small conveyer belts to climb, enroute to the lever-switch on the top right corner of the screen (which will, I presume, lift the barrier separating me from the door; that’s my theory anyway). These conveyer belts complicate matters, and confuse me, because they keep me in motion as the projectiles are hurtling, always end over end, towards me. I begin the level with 14 Marios, but after only a few seconds, I’m already down to 12 Marios.

That was quick.

Maybe this is the level that breaks me, I think. I know full well that, sooner or later, there will be a level in Man Vs. Donkey Kong that is just complicated and challenging enough to deplete me of all Marios, and send me back to the beginning of whatever tier of levels I’m on. Maybe this is it. Maybe I’ve reached it already.

Of course, this is not it. With a combination of skill and luck, I gather the sombrero, ring, and umbrella for maximum bonus points. I dodge a few errant piranha seeds at the right moment. An elevator arrives as I need it to arrive, carrying me to safety, and to the level-switch. I pull the switch. The barrier next to the locked door on the lowest tier of the level lifts. I begin my careful descent, timing my conveyer belt leaps to coincide with the passing of the piranha seeds. I grab the key, carrying it to the door. The door opens, and that’s all, folks. Next up: another showdown with D.K. himself in level 2-4.