Guarding my precious outlet at the Newark airport
Well I didn't exactly wish for more time spent at airports, but after looking at the last 24 hours in light of my recent posting on my love of the places I'm feeling a wee bit superstitious.
Checking in at Newark yesterday afternoon I was informed by the computer that my flight had been cancelled and rescheduled for first thing the next morning. I sought out the help of an airline employee but nothing else was available. I made the quick decision to stick it out instead of heading back into the city, not wanting to bother my friends again and figuring it would be a huge hassle to make the trip back out again at 3:30am. I now feel that was a poor decision. I'm sure I could have worked something out that was superior to wandering around Terminal A from 1pm to 11pm, squeezing in a few hours of sleep on a large luggage trolley (the only place warm enough), spending a further 4 hours at Chicago/O'Hare on a layover this morning, then squeezing into the back row of a tiny 2-engine next to a morbidly obese man on the flight back to Indy. I tried to feel compassion for him, primarily to keep from feeling resentment, but he was asleep almost the whole flight and while I was squeezed as far against the wall as possible, his arm kept dropping into my space; elbow in my waist, weighty forearm pressing limply against mine, and hand brushing my thigh. I would try to push the offending limb away but it kept falling back as he fell straight back to sleep. Eventually I settled for a childish solution, building a defense composed of my book and an in-flight magazine. This at least limited actual contact.
Now I am back again at the Indianapolis airport, waiting for the next Bloomington shuttle bus. I'm really tired. New York was excellent but I spent too much money and slept too little and now my nerves are shot and I'm trying to remember what it is I like so much about travel. I went to the restroom right after my flight landed and promptly burst into sudden tears. I want to go home.
2 comments:
You know, you do have friends with cars who would be happy to pick you up at the airport rather than have you take one more leg of brutal public transport after an already excruciating travel ordeal.
I sat next to a six-and-a-half-foot dude on a Greyhound bus redeye one time. He didn't fit into those seats at all and kept spilling into mine as per your experience. He looked apologetic every time he woke up with me removing one of his limbs from my lap or his head from my shoulder, but it was pretty aggravating. So you have my sympathies there. (Afterwards, the bus driver left me stranded at a truck stop in southern Oregon and drove off with my luggage and guitar! It took four days to get them back.)
Transit is the price we pay for arrival. If there weren't a vacation or the sweet comforts of home waiting at the end, nobody would ever submit to it voluntarily.
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