As much as I will miss Chicago, I will NOT miss the ever present miasma of utter incompetence that is O’Hare airport. I am now fully convinced that no one there has any idea, no incline of what function they are supposed to be performing, what gate numbers are, which end is up and where their ass is located. Monday morning started as typical clusterfuck, and only got better when I landed in California.
I was so worried that leaving Chicago would be extremely difficult. But it was much easier then I had thought because the person driving me was extremely grumpy and resentful, melting away the lumps in the throat and rendering me speechless at first. Of course it was an ungodly, early hour and I did expect some resistance. Just maybe on a smaller scale. I suppose I should honestly thank him for that. Also for not wearing shoes so I had to carry all my stuff solo. I’m sure it was absolutely hysterical.
My luggage handling skills need some work. Apparently I cannot handle three suitcases, a purse and a laptop. I would walk three feet, stop, shift, pick up fallen small suitcase. Walk three feet, stop, pick up fallen suitcase, shift purse. Rinse, repeat. I finally ended up at the ticket counter by kicking the smaller suitcase all the way to the counter….the one that I knew just had clothes in it. Of course within five minutes I find out that I am indeed at the wrong ticket counter, and I have to walk over to terminal one.
My confusion was not mocked. The agent was sympathetic to my plight, since the ticket read : Us Airways, courtesy of United by Ted. Three major airlines. Could be any one of them!! So my anythings possible ticket was only redeemable at good old “Ted” …the soon to be defunct offshoot of Uni-ted. (Get it?SO clever). This all would sucked much less had I been able to carry my luggage. I could not, so this was going to be a problem.
I resumed my pathetic walk,looking around eagerly for some sort of cart. Of which there were none to be found. Naturally the closest one was IN terminal one. So I was shit out of luck. I pushed, pulled and dropped my way through legions of travelers. Each person doing their best to try to trample me, heedless of my struggle and clueless to their surroundings. Even security snapped their gum and eyed me warily, with hostility as I swore my way over to the United counter. This…is a sign of the times. People do not help each other anymore. Not that I expected help,( but I would welcomed it happily) but I was a little irritated at the flat out hostility some were showing at my handicapped luggage handling. Are people really this afraid that anyone could be a terrorist? Airport’s are such a reminder of how truly changed we are all, socially.
When I was heading to Northern Ireland in 1999 I had a layover at LAX (Los Angeles). Our plane, a ginormous Virgin Atlantic 747 was delayed so all 400 of us were sitting together in the tiny area alloted for passengers waiting to board. Everyone started talking to each other, and before I knew it I was in a deep conversation with an Belfast family and by the time we were admitted to board I had offered to carry on of their bags, since they were way over the limit of two. The mother had let me peek into it, to verify the contents but I saw absolutely nothing wrong with what I was doing. Once on board and in my seat she came up to me, gave me a hug and took the bag thanking me profusely. It never once occurred to me that I could be aiding and abetting terrorists. I never once thought this family had anything to do with the IRA, UDA or whatever (even though I would find out later that the people I stayed with did have some anti-catholic sentiments and connections). So what if Belfast was just considered a hot spot in the late 90’s? So what if the friend I was visiting survived a bombing in his home town? Nothing like this had touched this country, and it was beyond my total comprehension at the airport that these people could be up to no good. You can bet your ass that NO ONE would do this today. Everyone is so scared of the person next to them. It’s sad you feel that you can’t trust anyone, and its even more sad that you really can’t anymore.
After checking in my ridiculously heavy bag (50 lbs! I watched them weight it), coughing up $125 USD for the extra luggage (such a scam) I was on my merry way to checkpoint charlie. About halfway there I realized I was going to have to pitch a few items and I could have kicked myself for forgetting to remove them. Dammit.
Sure enough, after I practically strip for TSA my bags set off a little alarm and I back up the line single handedly, as they start to pull out contents I am not allowed to bring with me. I yank my purse back irritably and start to pull them out myself, holding each item up in question as they curtly nod or shake their head. My first mini bottle of liquor was pitched into the can with much velocity, and I briefly entertained the thought of chugging it before slamming the empty bottle on the table. It was 5:30 am. The stomach had not had enough time to fortify the lining for such a morning assault. I hurled it into the tub. Hair gel? SLAM. Second bottle of alcohol? SLAM. Big bottle of Olive Oil lotion? I poured some out, rubbed a bit on my hands and then chucked it hard. I asked snottily if there was anything else they wanted to remove and they said no, eyes glazed over and unphased at my mini tantrum. Oh TSA…how I utterly loathe your soul-less employees, and ridiculous rules.
Relieved of the precious items that weighed my purse down hardly, I set off to the main gate. The flight was up there on my top five most nauseating. We hit the storm I was tracking before we left for the airport (sometimes I wish I was not so familiar with the atmosphere) and I knew it was going to get bad once we departed. Sure enough as we are taxing on the runway, out of the west comes the typical dark blue, purple wall of clouds. Boiling with the might of the prairie winds. We barely made it 25 miles out before we hit awesomely horrible turbulence. Winds buffeted the sides of the plane, and the pilots were desperately trying to find that pocket of least resistance. Plummeting the plane several hundred feet a couple times, and the climbing back up sharply. I was gritting my teeth and praying to every god I knew, and also hoping to hell I would not vomit all over my slumbering seat mate. My Sprite was in launch position halfway up the esophagus and was waiting for all systems go. Again any remorse, any sadness about leaving my home for the past two years vanished in the blink of the 1,000 mile an hour winds trying to flip over the plane.
Once the Rockies came into view I immediately felt better, a little later the Grand Canyon yawned open beneath all the oblivious passengers and I knew we were getting closer. Twice I had to nudge my seat mates head off of my shoulder, so I finally woke her up under the pretext of seeing if she was thirsty for something off the drink cart. I recommended caffeine. It was a relief to land once the strip came into view, surrounded by various shades of sienna, brown and gold, in the middle of the vast desert. Vegas was a scream. I adore the airport and all that it encompasses. Overly tan people. Super heavy, scantily clad people, laden with gold jewelry and bags from the high end stores here. Gilded with coinage from the slot machines, the ever present beeping and button pressing a dull roar in the background. No one is pasty, everyone has been walking around in 100+ heat and tanning off the endless gleam of windowed hotel theme parks. The frantic money spending atmosphere is palpable,and highly infectious which had me walking the wrong way, ending up in an area I was not supposed to be in which made me go BACK through security.
As I typed out a rough outline of this journey…A really cute, famous basketball player was sitting behind me obligingly signing autographs. I have no idea who it was. We were at Burger King in the middle of the Las Vegas airport. His wife/girlfriend looked like she was going to shank any person that came within a 2 foot radius. I glanced at them curiously but said nothing.
We were packed on the plane to Sacramento like sardines, and my seat mate was a very Christian Woman who was enamored with the full French woman seated next to her. For 45 minutes I , and the poor French woman, had to endure this ridiculously patronizing Q&A over the differences between France and America. The rest of the French family was seated to my right on the other side of the aisle, and I could tell they were just ripping on this American. It was fantastic.
I’m sure this Christian Woman, who was thumbing through a book called ‘Knight in Shining Armour” , and crossed herself every time the plane banked slightly honestly though she was really communicating with the French Woman. But I would intermittently cringe at the tripe that emitted from her mouth.
Such gems were:
Now, in France what side of the road do YOU drive on?
Oh I love your purse! Is it French?
Oh I know some French! (Sings) Frere Jacques…Frere Jacques..
My family is French. French American. From that French part of Canada. Whats it called again?
Do you measure everything in Kilometers?
How can you eat so much cream and butter and stay so thin?
I wanted to throttle her and hand her off to this Womans kids, who were glaring at our side of the plane with thinly veiled contempt. Not that I could blame them in the least. I interjected at one point during the inevitable flip to “Now, do you believe in Jesus in France?” to ask the Woman what part of France she was from (I don’t remember) and then asking her about wine. Nothing like a little booze talk to transcend international boundaries. She lit up, started talking about Champagne and I managed to stave off the full French assault that was mounting to my right. The Christian Woman had no clue that I saved her a beating. I’m sure it would not have mattered…God’s will right?
Needless to say landing in Sacramento was fantastic. I lost my seat mates in the crowd, called Melissa on the phone and waited for my luggage dutifully. The travel Gods decided I needed a little more spice to the already fun packed day, and while I was the first to retrieve bag #1 from the carousel, I paused in absolute shock at the hole at the top of the suitcase and the unzipped front compartment. I peered inside, and realizing with complete utter horror that this was my underwear compartment. A TSA employee had no doubt gleefully,rummaged through my panties. Fantastic. There was more space then there was when I packed it, and just as I was wondering what the hell happened to the contents I lifted my head and see it.
A black suitcase (not mine) slowly moving along the rotating belt, small, well-kept and neat with a pair of bright red panties stick to the wheel. No. No way. Where those mine?
The belt crawled past me, suitcase on its side and I stared hard at the boot print on the side of the panty and could dimly make out the threaded heart on the front. Uh yeah. Those were mine. I bit my lip and tried to ignore the snickers rippling through the crowd around me. There was no way in hell I was going to retrieve the way ward undies. The Travel Gods have spoken. This was my last offering.
It also seemed that no one wanted to touch that suitcase. It passed in front of me a total of eight times before I had all of my luggage and made my way out the door. No doubt the owner of said suitcase was waiting for someone to pick up the panties. I can’t even believe that this happened. At least no one knew they were mine.
I walked out in the 90 degree heat sans humidity and waited for Melissa after the incident. So glad to be back on the ground, so glad to be off of a plane and eager to see Mel and then head over to a household of people I genuinely like that I could not wait to see. Even if I am missing a pair of underwear. It’s good to be back.
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