It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

1950s futurism was hopelessly – even deliriously – optimistic, all flying cars and atomic space ovens and glamorous jet travel. Instead, I spent most of Friday in the worst travel experience of my life.

I left my home in Boston at 4:15 a.m. bound for Norfolk, Va. I was to change planes at LaGuardia and arrive in Virginia at about 11:30 am. My goal was to attend a going-away party for a longtime, dear friend of mine at 4 p.m.

Somehow this became an 18-hour journey of the damned.

After rushing about trying to get ready in 15 minutes, I fired up my iPhone and called an UberX. Surge pricing of 1.9 percent was in effect, so I would pay more than $50 for a trip to the airport.

The flight into New York City was fine, despite my having to land next to a plane-crash scene at LaGuardia. After deplaning, I couldn’t find my flight on the board.

Finally, I asked a US Airways gate agent. The second leg of my trip was actually booked on American. Nothing in the US Airways app, my boarding pass or confirmation e mail noted this. I was supposed to just know.

With the clock ticking, I was taken by shuttle bus to the American terminal.

A line was already forming for boarding. But before calling the flight, the gate agent paused. She picked up a phone and talked to someone. Then she announced our flight was canceled “due to weather.” The weather in Norfolk that day was sunny, 28 degrees with no precip and 10-mile visibility.

People waiting in line immediately began jeering the gate agent. One of the passengers in line suggested that maybe we should calm down, and it was suggested by a few people in line that maybe she should just shut the hell up.

After more than half an hour on the phone trying to make alternate plans, a US Airways rep gave me some options: Wait until Sunday afternoon for the first flight to Norfolk or take a connection to Washington D.C. that was leaving in a half hour. From there, I figured, I could take the train on to my destination.

I got in line for the shuttle back to the terminal where I had landed. And then waited. And waited. Past the time my flight was supposed to be taking off.

After a meandering ride across the ice-covered taxiway, the shuttle finally deposited me at the terminal. I raced to my gate and found that the DC flight would be delayed by an hour and a half. But, this turned out to be wrong.

It ended up being delayed by more than two hours. No worries, though. The gate agent told us that when the plane arrived they’d hustle the passengers off as quickly as possible and then hustle us on and possibly do a vertical takeoff right from the gate to save time.

Once we were on the plane, it sat at the gate for 45 minutes. To thank us for our patience, they gave us pretzels. There was no drink service on the flight.

At some point when I was over New Jersey, my train ticket expired. A 3:55 train would still be possible, but would push my arrival in Norfolk to almost 9 p.m.

After a 40-minute crosstown ride on the DC Metro to Union Station, I quickly bought a sandwich at the food court and rushed to my gate. The board said my train was running two and a half hours late.

Fuck it, I’m renting a car.

The only available car was a “luxury” tier, which cost $179 a day plus a $200 deposit, which doesn’t seem like enough money to replace a car should something happen to it. The rental agent ran my card and it was declined.

A nice call center employee of my bank told me that my card was blocked for “suspicious activity.” I should have received a text message informing me of this. Did you not get the text message, she asked? Could I check if I got the text massage? “Just unblock the damn card,” I said.

The car turned out to be a Kia Cadenza, which I had always thought was a type office furniture. Either way, I was once again moving toward my destination. Well, sorta. It was D.C. rush hour.

While waiting in traffic somewhere in suburban Arlington, I received a text message from my bank warning me of suspicious activity on my debit card.

After a four-hour drive, I arrived in Norfolk just short of 9 pm.

That night, as I found myself sitting in a seedy Virginia Beach karaoke bar with a group of old friends listening to someone murder “Music of the Night,” all the frustration and anger melted away.

Just kidding. I want to burn US Airways’ headquarters to the ground.