Epic Journey-- The Conclusion

The desk clerk at the hotel wanted a deposit from me. I started to cry. Why would you want a deposit? Here’s my room voucher. I can’t possibly skip out on paying your bill—because I’m not *paying* your bill. Oh, for Pay-Per-View. Well, turn it off in my room! Finally I got the key to a room on the 7th floor. Up in the tiny elevator (I barely fit with all of my luggage) and down the hall to the room. Mind you, there’s no luggage cart to help me out here, so I’m balancing all four pieces of luggage. And did I mention that I was tired? I struggled through the door, dropping the luggage just inside the room, and headed for the telephone to try and call Finbar before he left for the airport to pick me up from the flight that I hadn’t made. I picked up the receiver—no dial tone. Dialed 9 – no dial tone. Screw this, I’m going to call the front desk for help. Nothing happens. Awwww, crap. The phone must be broken. Awwwwwwwwww crap! That means I have to go back downstairs.

The front desk clerk was great. She was so patient with me, even though I practically in tears again. So close to bed and yet so very far away! I would need to move to another room (otherwise I couldn’t just not call out, I also couldn’t get a wake up call in the morning). Now, in the light of day and weeks later after an uninterrupted streak of not staying awake for 4o some-odd hours, I realize that this is perfectly reasonable. At the time, I remember being happy about the fact that she had a way to fix the problem but at the same time feeling like there was no possible way that I was going to be able to move all that stuff again. Heaven help me, I was so completely wrung out that I seriously couldn’t imagine how I would manage to drag my suitcases down the hallway to a different room. I guess the (wonderful, amazing) desk clerk must have read that thought in my face because she very kindly said, “You know what, let me just come up and help you get settled”. Which she did—absolutely above and beyond the call of duty for a desk clerk at a Sleep Inn.

Finally ensconced in my room-with-a-working-phone, I was able to call Finbar and let him know about the change of plans. I must not have been very coherent because he eventually interrupted me to say “Why don’t you tell me about it when I pick you up at the Buffalo Airport tomorrow? Get some sleep so that you won’t miss your flight. I’ll be waiting for you out front.” Wonderful man, he is.

Having taken care of that urgent situation, it was time to look to the care and feeding of my poor exhausted body. Hmmmmmm, $25 meal voucher for the hotel restaurant... let’s see what’s what. Turns out the restaurant isn’t actually part of the hotel, it’s next-door. And there’s no footpath. So I had to walk down the long, dark hotel driveway and then back up the driveway to the restaurant. Fun, fun, fun. The place turns out to be one of those “been there forever” restaurants that haven’t changed since the 1960’s. Heavy wood paneling, lots of gilded mirrors, older women waitressing, and a menu full of things like “Open Faced Roast Beef Sandwich (served with Mashed Potatoes)” and “Tuna Melt (served with potato salad”). By now, I suppose it was 11:15 or so. I had seen a sign on the hotel lobby wall that noted the restaurant hours as “Until 1 am”, so I wasn’t worried about getting served. So I was a little disappointed to find that “Night Menu” was the only food being served. And the night menu was nothing but lunch meat sandwiches on white bread for the most part. I ended up ordering something like a chef salad and a roast beef sandwich and a bottle of water. Not a thrilling meal, but at least it was something. And you shouldn’t look a gift (voucher) horse in the mouth, I suppose. The bartender invited me to wait at the bar while my food was being prepared.

I sat on a stool and leaned against the bar. I’m sure I looked like the worst kind of drunk with my dirty, wrinkled clothes, glazed eyes, and disheveled hair. The bar was full of Navy guys and the macho was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Consequently, the bar was also full of Those Women. On the stools next to me were a prime example of this coupling. The guy was tall and tattooed, wearing a super tight black T-shirt and jeans with ostentatious cowboy boots. He was aggressive and chugging Bud Light like it was going out of style. Leaning in toward him and attempting to make cow eyes was That Woman—frizzed out spiral perm, loooots of black eyeliner, a tiny little tight white dress with a gold lamé belt and strappy, pointy sandals with spike heels at least three inches high (how can she possibly walk? And how did she get up on the barstool without giving us all a glance of her underwear (presuming that she was wearing any—a dangerous presumption, as far as I can tell)). And the second the guy glanced over in my direction (and it truly was nothing more than a glance. I’m not trying to puff up my own power of attraction here.), she immediately gave me The World’s Dirtiest Look and placed her hand possessively on his arm. I was amused—macho military is not exactly my type and I wouldn’t pick up a guy in this sleazy little restaurant for all the tea in China. Thankfully, my food came fairly quickly. I paid and slid off the barstool, which prompted Macho Navy Guy to yell (too drunk to regulate his voice) “You’re not leaving, are you?”. Which royally pissed That Woman off. “Stay here and drink with us”. I gave a false little laugh and told him that I was too tired for drinking tonight. He tried to block my way, but I ducked around a waitress with a cocktail tray full of drinks and booked it out the door.

Back upstairs, I spread out the “feast” on the bed (and I’m not trying to be derogatory here—to be honest, typing this is making me hungry) and flipped on the local news. After nearly two months, it was the first time I had the chance to listen to an English newscast. Then I decided that I was just too dirty to sleep, so I dug out the little hotel soaps and took a quick (but very hot) shower. Then I collapsed into bed. And couldn’t fall asleep. It was just ridiculous. All this time, I’d been looking forward to this very moment. I had been awake for 46 hours or so. I needed to be up in about 6 hours to catch the shuttle back to the airport. Why, my treacherous body, do you betray me like this?

I suppose I must have dropped off at some point because the wake-up call did exactly that. Now, there is nothing interesting about my preparations in the morning, so I’ll spare you that. I totally ravaged the free breakfast buffet and then caught the shuttle to the airport—thankfully a different shuttle with a functioning door that didn’t flop open on the highway. I made it through the check-in at the AirTran counter with no problems (and I’d like to take a moment to reiterate how pleased I was with AirTran—their customer service was great) , was relieved of my heavy luggage (with no guff from the desk clerk about paying any extra fees) and even had enough time to track down a coffee bar in the airport. I was feeling pretty good... until I got to security.

It wasn’t so much that I was worried about time. I had more than two hours until departure. The set up of the security area was a little confusing and I paused to get my bearings. The security worker in that area immediately started screeching at me to “Go to the end of the line! No cutting in line!” Jeez Louise, Lady! That’s what I’m trying to do! But I CAN’T SEE ANY STUPID END OF ANY LINE! I guess I didn’t move fast enough because she ran over to me and screeched some more about the end of the line—which turned out to be down a long hallway and around the corner. I’ve never seen a security line this long in all the flying I’ve done. Whatever, I’ve got time and you can’t change it anyway. I sipped my coffee and inched along toward the security lanes. Just before reaching the front of the line, it occurred to me that I might have a plastic knife (from the breakfast buffet at the hotel) in my bag somewhere. I took it to spread cream cheese on my bagel while I was waiting outside the hotel for the shuttle pick-up and wasn’t entirely certain that I’d thrown it away. Cue a frantic search of my carry-on bags, fueled by the mental image of me calling Finbar to let him know that I had been arrested for terrorism and the follow-up image of my poor parents seeing me on the evening news (“An incident at Baltimore International Airport closed the terminal this morning...). Can you imagine? And in a couple of years when I try to be admitted to the bar, I’ll be faced with the task of explaining to the character committee why I tried to hijack a plane. Good Lord, where the heck is that knife? Finally, I found it—in my back pocket (even better! Now it really looks like I’m trying to smuggle on a weapon!). Now the security worker refused to let me out of line. I wasn’t sure if I should tell her why I was trying to leave the line (would I get arrested for “Threatening a Security Agent”? This woman certainly seemed loony enough to construe it that way) or if I should just hand the knife to the guy at the checkpoint or what. The guy next to me called his wife over and she laughed, but agreed to throw the knife out for me.

I passed through the metal detector with no particular problems. Then it was on to the x-ray belts, where everyone was required to take off their shoes and jackets. That was the first time I was required to remove my shoes for security. I wasn’t particularly happy about it, since I was wearing Birks with no socks and it meant putting my bare feet on the nasty airport floor, ewwwwwww. While my bags and accoutrement were being scanned in the machine, I was directed to one of eight or so folding tables lined up around the walls. Each table had a series of plastic bins on it, a plastic chair sitting to the side of it, and a small mat in front of it, similar in nature to a doormat, except that it had a pair of footprints printed on it. A very young looking TSA agent with crazy cool short dreads was at “my” table. He had me sit on the chair while he retrieved my bags from the machines and then identify each bag. Once everything had been reclaimed and placed in one of the plastic bins, he put on latex gloves and started going through the contents of the bags. This is the first time since 9-11 that I’ve been chosen for one of these “random” searches (although, as I looked around, I saw that everyone was being searched in a similar manner, so that wasn’t very random) and I have to say that I had dreaded this very thing, not because I was trying to smuggle some sort of contraband in my carry-on baggage, but because it just seems so incredibly invasive. But the young man searching my luggage was very polite to me, and very careful and respectful in his handling of my belongings. He made some small jokes with me about the weather and the hassles of traveling—it was altogether a pleasant experience, which is kind of surreal, considering the invasion of privacy involved.

Anyway, as I’m sure Lune (and Dani) can testify, my bags were packed tightly. I am the master of packing—I can get more stuff in a suitcase than anyone I know, and it all gets there in one piece. I’ve traveled with everything from bottles of wine to hand-blown stained glass balls and never yet had anything break in transit. My carry-ons are no exception. The poor TSA agent had disturbed the careful arrangement, despite his gentle handling of the contents of the bags, and now he couldn’t get it all back in. Finally, I asked him if I could be permitted to repack the bags. He radioed a supervisor, who came over and agreed to let me repack after a scan and a pat down. So, I stood on the footprint mat, held my arms out “like you’re flying”, and let a female supervisor pat me down like the badguy on Law and Order. Then I carefully realigned everything in the carry-on and easily closed the lid on the rolly bag, much to the amazed amusement of the TSA agent and his supervisor watching the process. Maybe I should send a letter to David Letterman and see if he wants to broadcast this Stupid Human Trick?

The AirTran flights were good. They boarded on time, the flight crew was friendly, and the flights didn’t involve any narcotic overdoses, so that’s an improvement right there. I was proselytized to by one of the people sitting in my row, not to join the Jehovah’s Witnesses, but to convert to some new-agey philosophy involving visualization mixed with a healthy dose of “Christianity”. I think my favorite part of the guy’s “testimony” was when he told me that he couldn’t believe what a “godd*mned” difference Jesus Christ and visualization had made in his life. Later, he grabbed my copy of Der Spiegel out of my hands and pointed to a picture of a beautiful young girl, announcing that he simply could not believe the resemblance between the woman sitting between the two of us and this girl in the magazine. The woman, who must have been in her forties, looked at me and rolled her eyes. He simply could not let it go and started showing the magazine to the people in the rows around us. I wished with all of my heart that I’d never let on that I could speak English at all.

And then the plane touched down in Buffalo, I met Finbar in the check-in area, we claimed my luggage (and I was furious to discover that the handle on my brand new red suitcase had been ripped off) and that’s the end of my epic journey. I was sad to leave Germany and Dani, but it was good to be home.