My unrequited love for an vengeful cosmos

Bad things seem to happen to me in clusters. For a while I thought it was because I just had bad luck, especially when I travel. But this has always been near perfectly countered by bouts of good luck that usually spit me out at some kind of disheveled equilibrium. In Paris, I spent the first solid month detangling myself from poorly timed exits from closing metro doors, recovering my wallet from nightclubs, weeping over a new camera left and unrecovered on a train to Germany, missing last busses of the night in Belgium and simply tripping every which way over real and invisible obstacles. Months later my verve is rebirthed by a camera replaced by a random special clause added by my mother to my rental insurance, my wallet has succeeded to resurface without fail, my body is yet to be permanently crushed by public transportation Fails, and that Belgian crisis? A random German man eating a churro and smoking a pipe outside at 4:30am offered us a suite in his hotel for 30EU for three of us. Why is this relevant? At the moment, but some cruel but fortunate turn of cosmic luck I am sitting on my flight to Seattle, en route to Reykjavik. On the way to the airport, my Bart car broke down, so I transferred to another which happened to be the red line, which is the same as the yellow line I had been on with the exception of one stop which happens to be the San Francisco Airport. Realizing fairly quickly that I had missed the airport I switched trains and waited for the Yellow line again, T minus 31 minutes to takeoff and I had not even reached the airport. I got to SFO, hopped the shuttle at Terminal 1 to Terminal 3, apologetically a cut the line hoping my sweaty brow would explain the situation entirely. Arrival at American Airlines check-in, T minus 24 minutes. In very slow and broken English the woman tells me I am in fact booked on Alaskan Airlines, in terminal 1. I sprint through the walkway, reach Alaskan Airlines, who tell me there is absolutely no way they I can make it, or that they can even check me in. He puts me on the next flight, which would get me in too late for the flight to Reykjavik and tells me good luck. Instead of checking my bag I sprint through security and through a delightfully accommodating crowd of better planners, get through security with my liquids and razors and sprint to my gate arriving one minute past the plane’s departure time to find it delayed by ten minutes. I requested a flogging for my tardiness but instead they offered to tag my bag, have it stowed and redelivered to me personally at arrival. In a sweaty deluded mess I waited and boarded with the rest. Equilibrium achieved.