Some highlights from last week's column, in which I flew to Tampa, Fla., for the weekend and was trapped by storms:

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

I called Amtrak. I could take a bus and two trains 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.

Fortunately, I had a guardian angel back in Pittsburgh with an iPhone. Just when I was facing the prospect of renting a car and enduring the least fun road trip ever, I had a reservation on Southwest for the next morning, Monday, leaving Orlando at 7:20 a.m. and going straight to Pittsburgh.

Our story continues:

I got in line at a rental counter and scored the world's least appealing car. A car that not only gulped gas so thirstily that I could see the gauge needle moving but was also so ugly I would have felt cooler driving a recycling bin.

I made it to Orlando and checked into my hotel. All I had to do Monday morning was drive the couple of miles to the airport, drop off the car and catch a 7:20 flight straight home to Pittsburgh.

The first setback was that the hotel was not as close to the airport as it claimed to be. The second was that the rental dropoff for my hideous car was not even at the airport. It took me two trips around the airport loop to even figure out where I had to go to get rid of the misaligned jalopy. I was already visibly losing the full tank of gas I'd just topped off.

The rental shuttle, which picked us up in, I believe, Georgia, dropped me at the airport at nearly 7 a.m.

My heart began to pound.

The agent put a big LATE tag on my bag, and it slid away to points unknown while I clawed my way through security, pounded through the airport and arrived at my gate to find I'd missed the plane to Pittsburgh by 10 minutes.

"I'll get you on the next one, which leaves at ... 1:25."

Leaving nothing to chance, I went to the gate to check in before noon.

"You're first on the standby list," said the agent. Standby? Nobody said anything about standby. Standby means there's a chance I might not get on!

"This flight is full. You're first on the standby list."

The flight was overbooked. It filled up and flew away without me.

Just to get me to go away, the agent told me she'd try to get me home via Philadelphia.

"I've been trying to get home for two days," I said.

The elderly couple standing next to me asked incredulously, "You mean we could end up like this poor soul?" I didn't wait to hear the answer.

I was on standby for Philly, too. The flight was overbooked.

But it didn't leave without me. It was canceled.

Nearly everything going to a Northeastern airport -- Philly, Baltimore, D.C., New York -- was canceled simultaneously.

I got in another endless line. The terminal began to take on a refugee-camp look as people sat dejectedly gripping their lattes and children.

"There's nothing we can do, so we might as well relax," chirped a woman behind me. "It's too dangerous to fly, so if we have to wait a day or two, it's worth it for a lifetime."

In the midst of all this angst and frustration, here was a cheery voice of perspective. I wanted to sock her.

"I can't get you into Pittsburgh until Wednesday," said the agent, frowning into his screen.

"WEDNESDAY??" I wailed, my eyes welling. My God, I won't be able to afford to get my car out of the lot!

"Can you get me somewhere else? What about ... Cleveland?"

"I can get you into Cleveland tonight."

And so I flew to Cleveland and was whisked homeward in snow squalls and single-digit chill by my guardian angel. The plane landed a little after 11 p.m., and after retrieving my car at the Pittsburgh airport, I was finally home, just about 2 a.m.

Tuesday.