This is how I went to Florida, never got near a beach and then couldn't get home.

Eat your heart out, Dorothy.

I needed to go to a meeting in St. Petersburg; there was a dinner Friday evening, followed by a daylong meeting Saturday. I booked a flight down for Friday morning and, thinking I'd at least get one day to loaf around soaking up warm sunshine, a flight back to Pittsburgh on Sunday night.

The trouble started with an automated text message Saturday after dinner telling me the first leg of my flight back, from Tampa to Atlanta, was canceled.

(Have you noticed you can hardly get anywhere from Pittsburgh anymore without going through some smug Southern boomtown?)

So I went up to my room and called Delta to rebook.

I was on hold for two hours.

And the music was atrocious. It's my considered opinion -- and I had lots of time to consider -- that the penalty for recording an R&B cover of "I Wanna Hold Your Hand" should involve rats.

When I finally got to talk to someone, she was not encouraging.

"The best I can do tomorrow night is get you into Canton, Ohio. Otherwise, I can't get you into Pittsburgh until Tuesday."

TUESDAY? It's Saturday night and you can't get me back to Pittsburgh until TUESDAY?

"It's snowing in Atlanta, ma'am."

Yeah. So? It's been snowing on and off for months in Pittsburgh. What's your point?

Apparently there is no snow removal equipment or expertise in Atlanta, and they can't fly any in because everyone is running around screaming and the city is in flames and Rhett is going to have to blindfold the horse to get Scarlett out of town.

The agent told me to call again in the morning to see if anything had opened up.

First thing Sunday morning, I dialed Delta. There were only clicks and recordings saying "All circuits are busy." I couldn't even get a busy signal, much less a ring.

I called a shuttle and went right to the airport.

When I got there, the rebooking line already snaked all over the check-in area, doubled back on itself and vanished over the horizon.

An apocalyptic storm arched from the Gulf Coast to the Carolinas, neatly forming a wall between Florida and the rest of the Northern Hemisphere. All around me, the stranded were ranting into cell phones in many languages, all obviously tinged with blue. The only people who seemed happy were a bunch of young dudes on their way to Prague who had discovered they might have to reroute through Amsterdam. Duuuude!

Two-and-a-half hours later, the rebooking agent told me I no longer could get to Canton either and would have to fly to Pittsburgh on Tuesday. I told her to cancel my reservation. I could DRIVE to Pittsburgh before Tuesday. Surely …

I called Amtrak. I could take a bus and a train and another train and get to Pittsburgh very late on … Tuesday.

I called Greyhound. I could leave Tampa that night and arrive after 2 in the morning on … Tuesday.

I cursed myself for not bringing my laptop. If I couldn't easily find transportation online, I could at least enjoy composing a strongly worded letter.

Fortunately, I had a guardian angel back in Pittsburgh with an iPhone. Just when I was facing the prospect of renting a car, driving into the teeth of the maelstrom and enduring the least fun road trip ever in some abused Focus with a lousy radio, I had a reservation on Southwest for the next morning, leaving Orlando at 7:20 a.m. and going straight to Pittsburgh. All I had to do was rent a car and drive the short distance to Orlando. A hotel just a couple of miles from the airport was waiting.

Ha! Tuesday, Shmoozeday. All would be well, and I'd be home bright and early Monday morning.

Except it didn't turn out that way.

To be continued ...