St. Peter and Bouron Streets
My friend Lynn picked me up at 5:30 AM (shudder . . . for both of us) and took me to the Eugene Airport to catch my first flight of a very long day, my flight to Seattle. (Since I waited until nearly the last moment to buy my ticket, I had my choice of several long, multiple plane flights. I chose the least hideous.) After a received my boarding pass (they wouldn’t allow me to check in online – I tried), I was told I needed to check in at the AA (no, not Alcoholics Anonymous, although that would’ve been interesting. American Airlines—not so much) gate in Seattle for my next boarding pass. Sigh. Okay.
Boarding and flight went well, all on time. Packed flight, a smaller propeller type plane. I was sitting beside a man my age who slept through the flight. I study the airplane disaster guide carefully, then note the nearest exit and plan my escape—provided I survive the crash.
We were served beverages and a little trail mix type snack. Not very yummy, but hey, nourishment.
We had quite a bit of turbulence the closer we got to Seattle due to rain and wind. I didn’t freak out during the turbulence (a first for me!), but I did white-knuckle the armrest as we made our landing, wings see-sawing from side to side. Episodes from 60 Seconds From Disaster flashed behind my eyes. I visualize making my escape from the burning wreckage. But it was a smooth landing, no problem.
Note to self: STOP WATCHING FRICKING PLANE CRASH SHOWS!!!
The walk to my next gate was very long and I’ve discovered just how out of shape and overweight I am since I broke my ankle last year as I lugged my carry on and laptop. Gah. Must redouble my exercise and weight loss efforts as soon as I get home.
People packed the gate—another full flight for this leg of the journey—from Seattle to Dallas. I spoke to a woman at AA’s service counter and she gave me my boarding pass for the third part of my journey and said she’d call me back up to the counter once they had a seat for me.
I noted that I wasn’t alone in waiting for seat assignment as I propped myself against a wall. No empty chairs in the lounge. I kept thinking, It’s Tuesday! Where the hell is everybody going?
So I watch the first class and premier passengers board (after the special needs individuals). I panic (mildly) when boarding is delayed because they’re still fixing . . . something. What? What are they fixing? Is it on the plane? What if the mechanic is incompetent and his “repair” leads to disaster during the flight?
I decide at that moment that if the airline asks me if they can bump me to another flight instead of assigning me a seat on this one, I’ll take it. Everyone else is doomed.
But they don’t bump me. They call me back to the service counter and assign me a seat. The doomed feeling passes. I accept my boarding pass and get in line.
Note to self: STOP WATCHING GODDAMNED PLANE CRASH SHOWS!!
As we’re milling like (doomed) cattle down the jetway, I suddenly don’t feel well. Is this another sign? Is this flight destined for disaster? Should I turn around and bolt, screaming, “It’s going down!! Run for your lives!! (And get arrested in the process for making threats, no doubt.) Then I realize I’m having a hot flash, I’m tired and hungry, and that’s why I don’t feel well, not because the plane is (once more) doomed.
Note to self: SEE ABOVE!
I’d hoped for an aisle seat (easier bathroom access), but I had the window seat in a row of three. Again, I study the airplane disaster guide and note the nearest exit. I make sure I know how to escape—provided I survive. Again.
Starving by this point, I was looking forward to the food I’d been told would be available for sale. We were served beverages, then . . . nothing. No food was offered! I wistfully watched the first class passengers being served all manner of food and drink (in real glasses! The drink, not the food) and yearned for another packet of trail mix.
The flight was smooth and uneventful. We even landed early due to a strong tail-wind most of the way. Surely the airport had food. I had plenty of time before my flight to New Orleans to eat.
My gate was in Terminal C. We arrived at Terminal A, so I took the skylink tram to the terminal since it was several dimensions away. I beelined for the nearest food kiosk and bought a sandwich and water. A veritable feast! Yummy. The TV at the gate announced that Charlie Sheen had been hospitalized. A supposed “allergic reaction” to medication or what the police at the scene called an EDP—an emotionally disturbed person. Yawn.
Another packed flight. Seriously, people? Where the hell are you going on Tuesday?? At least I had the aisle seat this time. But the flight was so short, it didn’t really matter. I study the disaster guide. Note nearest exit.
I dozed a little, convinced at last, that no crash was imminent and, really, no longer caring.
When not dozing or being unconcerned about my aerial fate, I noticed that I was sitting beside a woman reading an Ilona Andrews novel and a man perusing information about Tulane University.
We landed right on time—but that advantage was lost when we were forced to remain in the plane for another half hour while they waited for something. I’m not sure what. Maybe our plane needed to wing wrestle another plane for the right to disgorge passengers. If so, we lost.
Since we were allowed to turn our cell phones back on, all you heard throughout the plane were beeps and boops and chirping little signing in music. One-sided conversations blossomed everywhere. Text message received—beep-beep-beep.
Finally, we were freed from the plane. I found my suitcase on the carousel without a problem. When I exited the airport, it was like being wrapped up in a hot, wet blanket. Instant sweat. I realized then I hadn’t brought nearly enough clothes.
I then boarded the airport shuttle (with 13 other people) and went on a mad, bumpy journey to New Orleans. I had forgotten the driving techniques of the Big Easy—fast and insane—but had a quick refresher course as I clung to the headrest of the seat in front of me.
But I was okay with that. Fast and insane, but our driver clearly new what he was doing. I was second to last to be dropped off at my hotel.
Checked in, got settled in my room, then hit the streets for food. And an Abita. I still felt like I was wrapped in that hot, wet blanket. It was 86 degrees and at 80% humidity. But still. It was New Orleans! I ate some pizza, had an Abita Amber, then wandered around a bit, getting my bearings again. It’s been a little while since I’ve been back, but I had no trouble remembering my way around.
I’m happy to be back in the Big Easy! I’m looking forward to more research, writing, more tours, and meeting members of the Club Hell Yahoo group and fan club.
More of this adventure to come.
