Dispatches From the Wee Small Hours of the Morning
July 27, 2006
Well. I am here in California. I survived two flights, including the Scariest Connection Ever at the L.A. airport, where I was quite literally herded out towards a dumpster on the side of a runway and told in Spanish to wait for a bus, a bus that was labeled with every airline that WAS NOT THE AIRLINE I NEEDED, but everyone who looked sort of official just kept nodding and pointing at the bus and I actually thought for a few minutes that I was going to be deported.
I was not deported. In case you were wondering. I am, as I said, here in California. I don't know if das boot is off my car (we had more than two unpaid parking tickets more than 30 days old is what we did, only replace "two" with "seven" and "30 days" with "assorted lengths of time, topping maybe five months or so"), my hotel room smells funny and I don't understand how to work the shower.
I am going to go find the bar. Here is something I wrote many, many hours ago, when the day was young and runway dumpsterless, at the airport in Washington, DC.
All checked in. As usual, I'm ridiculously early, nervous as all hell and regretting my choice of travel clothes.
I'm not a nervous flyer. I'm a nervous traveler. I am a nervous airporter.
Oh. My God. I hate airports.
I'm actually the person who calms down once I’m on the plane, because that’s the only way I'm satisfied that I really, really won't miss my damn flight.
So I show up hours earlier than I have to and quietly freak out at the sight of any lines, because OMG LINES WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE. I'm always totally fascinated by those people who are cutting it so close they have to get called to the front of the check-in line in order to make their flight -- how are they not weeping? Pushing and fighting and biting their way through the crowd and knocking small children over with their luggage?
And also, how dare they get to cut in front of me. You might
make me miss my flight, motherfucker.
The thing is, I've never missed a flight in my entire life, except for one connection in Florida that I knew full well that I was going to miss before I boarded the first flight, yet tried to run for it anyway and then ended up nearly missing my back-up connection, and I would go into more detail about that exercise in terror except that I have a sneaking suspicion that I wrote about it when it happened, like DUDE. I've been blogging so long I've officially run out of fresh life experience to draw from.
Also, talking about that story is bad luck because I have a
We also aren't even going to talk about what a wreck I’ll be the first time I fly anywhere with Noah, mostly because the logistics make me twitch but also because WE ARE NOT TALKING ABOUT NOAH WHOSE SLEEPING, DOWNY HEAD I KISSED GOODBYE THIS MORNING AND WAAAAH.
I'm actually kicking it old school right now, as I'm scribbling all this nonsense down on an actual paper notebook so as to save my laptop battery for the flight.
I hate writing longhand, as my handwriting is really, really slow and I'm invariably tripping over thoughts for three sentences later and I just can't keep up. Plus, when I go to retype it, I'm always a little embarrassed. There's just something about seeing my words written out in my awful chickenscratch that reminds me of the terribly earnest and just plain terrible writing I did back in high school and college.
Plus, I'm balancing the notebook on my lap and my hand is cramping.
There's an empty table over there in the food court, but it's more than my approved safety zone of five feet from my gate and therefore unacceptable as I could totally miss the call for boarding.
The one that should be coming any hour now.