“Worst trip ever.”
Where does one even begin on a day like this one? IGLA championships are over and today I'm trying to get home to Utah. It looks at least that I will make it home tonight, if several hours late and somewhat sticky.
It started in Atlanta when all flights to Newark had been delayed several hours. The official reason was weather. I think that is bullshit, but I'll get to that in a bit. I found myself spending the two and a half hours I would have spent on a layover in New Jersey in Atlanta. I finally arrived in Newark at approximately 6:15pm, exactly the scheduled time of departure for my flight to Salt Lake City. With the first stroke of luck I had today, my flight to Salt Lake had also been delayed. The gate agent told me I might make it if I ran.
Continental uses two terminals in Newark, A and C. I came into A. I had to leave at C. In a real stroke of genius, the designers of Newark's airport make it so that if you need to change terminals, you have to leave the secure area and go through security again at the other terminal. Peachy. There were three of us trying to get through security to catch our plane. Of course the guys at security were in no particular rush, taking their time running our bags through the X-ray machine. Once out of the X-ray machine, the trays containing our stuff simply sat there instead of moving down the belt where we could begin gathering up our belongings and getting dressed again. I tired of waiting and reached in and pulled the trays down to within easy reach. One damn fool copped some attitude and started giving me a hard time.
"Would you like to just climb into the machine, sir?"
"I am in a hurry. I have a plane to catch and I was told I might make it if I ran, so I'm running."
"You should be at the airport two hours prior to your flight's departure."
"I am making a connection! This is not my fault!"
At least he had the sense to shut up at that point. I ran up to the gate hot and sweating at 6:40, the newly scheduled time of departure. Boarding still had not begun so I sat down to catch my breath.
Some time later, we begin to taxi out on to the runway. Half way there we stopped. The captain came on to inform us that Vice President Cheney was at the airport a leaving shortly. All traffic was on hold until he had departed. Estimated wait: 25 minutes. Okay. A mother will get arrested for leaving her kids five minutes in a car, even if the car is running and the A/C is left on, but it's okay for Dick Cheney to make hundreds of people sweat in tin cans on the runway for half an hour. Do you think Mr. Cheney gave a moments thought to the hundreds of people sweating in airplanes grounded for his "safety?" I seriously doubt it. This is where we get to the part about the day's earlier delays having nothing to do with weather. I'm sure it was Dick's arrival that set things back. The airline can just absolve themselves of responsibility if the cause is weather. The lie is justified in the name of security.
Tangent warning: It is absolutely obscene that Air Force One is used as a commuter jet. What the hell does any head of state need their own private 747 for? How many millions of gallons of gas are burned flying that beast around? Fine, in a state of emergency put the flying command center in the air. For publicity stunts and day to day travel the damn fools should be flying in souped-up corporate jets. That way we'd only waste thousands of gallons of gas flying their sorry asses around. They would not require a major airport to land the monstrosity and could land at smaller airports and not disrupt traffic and travel for hundreds of already tired and cranky travelers. By the time we were once again cleared for take off, we were 15th in line and another 30 minutes was lost as we waited for our turn to take off. How many man hours were wasted on Dick's behalf? How much energy wasted trying to keep the cabins from becoming sweat boxes? How much extra fuel was burned as every aircraft put on hold for Dick put the pedal down to try and make up lost time?
You would think that the adventure would end once we were finally airborn. WRONG! Before we had even reach cruising altitude, some kid behind me pukes all over the place, his mom having been on the other side of the aisle and not quick enough with the airsick bag. Now that's a pleasant smell in a confined space.
Are you wondering yet how sticky works into all this? Just as the beverage cart reached my seat in the back of the plane, we moved into an area of rough air. As the flight attendant was passing a Coke to the young woman sitting by the window, we hit a particularly rough bump and I ended up with about a third of the cup down my shirt and in my lap.
I was laughing at this point. What else can one do? The second stroke of luck today was that my copy of The Brothers Karamazov—a nice and somewhat expensive leather bound edition—was turned such that the soda did not soak the pages and only got the leather cover wet, which was easily wiped off.
Now we'll just see if my luggage makes it to Utah with me. I rather doubt it will. I think I used up the last of my luck for the day on my book.
(Any of you who happen to play "Simpon's Road Rage" for the PS2 should recognize the title for this post.)
UPDATE: No luggage. At least they knew where it was. (On its way to Houston.)