Trains, Planes and Air Force One

Just back from a mandated business trip to Las Vegas. Now that that city has shrugged off the nonsense of being "family friendly", you can take in the charms of what is our country's most blatant hedonist amusement park. Adults only. No rides requiring you to be "this" tall. Keep the kids away. "Girls to your door in 20 minutes!"

Now I love to travel as much as anything.  I may joke that my wife thinks that roughing it means staying at a hotel that doesn't have room service, but you won't see me camping in a tent in the middle of nowhere, communing with nature.  I enjoy a good restaurant, good company, and a room with a view.

I should have known that my week of travel was going to be a rough one from the welcoming tone of the Southwest flight attendant.  Carrying on a garment bag and my briefcase, I pause to ask the attendant if there was a spot where I could hang my bag.

"No, sir, this is coach", the male flight attendant quipped.  After pausing a few seconds he added sarcastically, "Welcome aboard."

I looked at my brother-in-law who was entering the plane ahead of me and heard the exchange.

"Say, Wally, did he just say 'Fuck You'?"

Ding.  You are now free to move about the country.  You just don't have to enjoy it.

On my way back from Vegas was slightly more challenging.  Winter storms were threatening Chicago, and my scheduled flight was coinciding with the worst the storm front had to offer.  Wrapping  up at the convention on Thursday afternoon, I beat a hasty retreat to the airport, in the hopes of getting on an earlier flight.

At the gate, I spoke with a Southwest agent who obviously didn't share a hatred of the flying public that the earlier flight attendant did.  She was able to bump me up to an earlier flight.  However, she apologized that the flight, and all flights out of McCarran were delayed due to the fact that President Bush was in town. All air and road traffic into and out of the airport was stopped while Air Force One got off the ground.  Stories circulated of people stuck in cabs for 45 minutes, going nowhere, in gridlock of Presidential proportions, while the meter kept running.  Hopefully their taxi fare wouldn't be bigger than their stimulus package rebate that was in the mail.

"Well," I told the ticket agent.  "There are two forces of nature you can't fight against... the President and a snow storm in Chicago."

Once on the plane and hurtling in my pressurized metal tube towards home, did I feel like I was playing Beat The Clock with Mother Nature.  Since my cell phone lacks the ability to keep a charge and function with normal usage for more than 9 hours at a time, I was unable to call ahead and check the conditions.  I was plunging head-first into the unknown.  At least I had a book to keep me company.

Arriving in Chicago was no problem.  A modest tail wind shaved a few minutes off the flight time.  The Captain came on the PA to give us some worrisome news.

"Midway Airport has placed us in a holding pattern right now until we can meet the bare minimum requirements for landing the aircraft."  I look outside.  Could you actually see a wing ice up while we are circling the airport in light snowfall?

After about 30 minutes we got the clearance to land.  As we began our descent I was wondering if we were going to roll off the end of the runway and onto Cicero Avenue like that one plane did a year ago.  I figured if we ended up on the street it would be easier to catch a cab.  Provided we didn't slide into something bigger and more massive than a chain link fence.

As the wheels hit the ground, a small cheer and light applause emanated from the rear of the aircraft.  Almost home, I think.  Unfortunately, since the snow postponed several departures, there wasn't a gate for us to pull up to.  We had to wait on the taxi-way for another 30 minutes until one opened up.  Nothing like playing musical chairs with 737s.

Finally.  At the airport.  All I have to do is get to my car and I'm on my way home.  I jump in the shuttle bus to the economy parking and head out.  As we pull into a lot, I have a realization...I parked in the parking deck.  I don't remember going though any lots to get to the terminal.

I walk up to the driver and ask, "Say, does this bus stop at the parking garage?"

"No, " he replies.  "That's the other bus."

Crap.

"So I have to go back to the terminal and get on the other bus to get to the garage?"

"No", the driver offers.  "I could drop you off at the garage... if i got a tip!"

I check my wallet.  A twenty and a five were all I had.

"Would five bucks get me there?" I ask, proffering the bill towards the driver.

"Sure," he says, snatching the bill.

I sit back down, only to have some fellow passengers on the bus ask me, "This bus does go the parking garage, right?"

"It does now!" I reply.  I inform them politely that we were all on the wrong bus, but a well-placed bribe would get us to our cars.  

"Don't worry", I add, extending my hand out in a stop sign to the fellow passengers.  "This one is on me!"  They laugh, but don't outright thank me.  That's gratitude.

Once at the parking garage I head to my car.  Usually there are machines that you can insert your parking slip into and you can pay for the bill, eliminating the need to stop and pay on the way out.  Unfortunately there are signs on the machines that read "Out of Service.  Machines being upgraded for better service."  Better service?  They are offering no service right now!

Well, I thought, how many cars are there going to be on a Thursday night at 11 p.m. in the middle of a snowstorm?  Actually, quite a few.

As I pull out of the garage I am met with a queue of cars thirty deep, all waiting for the one open attendant.  Not feeling any sense of urgency, comfortable in her plexi-glass cocoon, the parking attendant is singing along to the radio, chit-chatting  with the cars ahead.  By the time I get up to pay my $56 for four days of parking, 25 minutes had elapsed.

Since the snow was still coming down, and was expected to do so for several more hours, the snow plows were absent from the roads.  I had the disorienting task of following the previous cars' tracks through the limited visibility and darkness, hoping that I didn't follow some previous jamoch's trail into a ditch or off a viaduct.  After and hour and a half, at an average speed of 35 mph, I finally get to my subdivision.  Hitting the garage door opener I pull into my drive, towards the peaceful glow of my garage.  And get stuck in the 3 foot snow bank that drifted in front of my garage door.

Backing out, I realize that I will need to dig myself into my garage.  

Welcome home.