This was written on Saturday as I waited for my flight from D.C. to Atlanta. I'm just now posting because a) there was no wi-fi there and b) I'm lazy. Enjoy!
1 1)
From my parents: NEVER say the word “bomb” in an
airport.
2 2)
From my sister: ALWAYS pick an aisle seat.
Okay, I’ve learned a lot of other things about traveling
from my family, but these two are particularly important today. Don’t worry, Dad, I didn’t say “bomb,” but I
may as well have…and NO ONE CARED.
Let me back up just a bit.
I left Cape Town last night at 11:20 PM Africa time (I’m not
sure of the name of the time zone, but I know it’s not Eastern). Africa time (by my estimation, all of Africa,
but I’m sure Kate will correct me) is six hours ahead of real time. Don’t ask me how that works, but it
does. I arrived at the airport a solid
three hours before my flight, and that three hours counts in my travel time, so
as of this writing I’m at 27 hours of traveling, and 40 hours of
wakefulness. I still have at least four
more hours of travel ahead of me, so as you can probably guess, I’m a bit
delirious. This post promises to be
either awesome or awful…or both.
In the CPT airport, I hassled the lady at the check-in
counter about checking all three of my bags (I went with three, I left with
five). She wanted me to check all of
them, I wanted to only check two and then check the third at the gate. We argued for a good 37 seconds (it was
brutal) until she informed me that I got two checked bags for free. Wait, what!?!?!?! That wasn’t in the brochure!! I smiled politely, paid her my R760 (760 Rand
= $76) and bounced away, cheerful as ever.
At this point, I was sweatier than a fat guy in a fat suit. Seriously, I hadn’t even done anything yet
and I was already regretting my choice of “plane clothes.” But, with no other option, I flung my puffy
jacket over my shoulder and headed for security.
In a rare moment of forethought, I had the presence of mind
to pack deodorant, face cloths, toothbrush, toothpaste and medicine in my
carry-on. Now, it should be mentioned
that I almost always have one of my carry-on bags flagged for a search. Leaving Atlanta back in May, it was for a jar
of Nutella (I’m still a little sore about that). But I am nothing if not cooperative with
security and I told the nice TSA guy to “go for it.” He pulled out my deodorant and stared at it
for a few minutes. One the inside I’m
thinking, “Please God, don’t let him take my deodorant away.” On the outside I smiled politely and said it
really wasn’t a big deal if he wanted to toss it, and that I understand how
this stuff works. I’m sweating on the
inside AND the outside now, desperately hoping he won’t throw out the precious
commodity which I was only just beginning to grasp the value of.
He let me keep my deodorant.
Once on the plane, I settled into my aisle seat and informed
the mother and son sitting with me that I likely wouldn’t sleep so not to worry
about needing to get out. The mother,
Carol, looked at me like I was crazy, sure that an eleven hour flight which
departed at 11:20 PM would warrant sleep from even the pickiest sleeper. It did not.
I even took a sleeping pill.
Nothing. So, I was grateful for
my aisle seat because I got up, I’m sure, about two dozen times. At one point, in a desperate attempt to
sleep, I took my pillow and my neck pillow and discreetly found myself a spot
on the floor outside the bathrooms. I
mean, no one is using it, except those greedy, greedy guys in the front of
coach…as if their feet need more room than mine. Anyway, like I said, I did it
discreetly. First I stood as if I were
waiting for the restroom. Then I sat, as
if the wait was WAY too long (there was one person in line, and I sat down
after about fifteen seconds). Then I
said screw it and just sprawled out on the floor. Unfortunately, I knew it was against the
rules, and my scoff-law ways were likely to get me thrown out the emergency
exit I was so fitfully attempting to sleep in font of.
I didn’t sleep for fear of missing it when they started opening the
emergency exit. When I felt the tap on
my shoulder, I didn’t even wait for an explanation; I just gathered my pathetic
pillows and headed back to my seat. The
flight attendant gave me sad eyes and apologized, which I thought was sweet. I spent the rest of the flight with my legs flung over the side of my seat, not caring that I was obstructing the cart path. A cart hit me in the foot and then I cared a lot.
I had been feeling kind of sick leading up to my departure
and had drowned myself in Vitamin C. The
plane, however, gave me a serious case of the icks. I haven’t enjoyed anything I’ve eaten for two
days now (which, admittedly, could just be the airplane food) and I’ve been
coughing a lot. So as the plane was
landing, one flight attendant asked me how I was feeling. Seriously, kudos to the KLM flight
attendants. They’ve been wonderful start
to finish.
I got off the plane in Amsterdam and, with two hours before
my flight for D.C. was scheduled to leave, I began to meander in that
direction. I slowly made my way from D7
to E17, pausing at coffee shops along the way to peruse their hot tea
selections. I didn’t ever get any,
thinking I would get some closer to my gate, that I was really hot and may not
actually want hot tea, but my throat was killing me and I definitely needed it,
but did I really want to pay with a credit card for a cup of tea because I have
no Euros??? It was a serious
conundrum. I got to E17 and, spidey
senses tingling, quickly noticed that something wasn’t right. I looked at the board and it said nothing
about D.C. in the next hour. I asked a
gate attendant, who told me I needed to go back to D57. It was a long enough walk between D7 and E17,
but then I had to go back to D7 and then past it?! Hearing my complaints about my heavy bags,
she offered me a cart. Why had I not
thought of this?!?!?! It made the trek
back to D57 much more bearable, and faster.
And that was when I decided, again, screw it. I stopped at Starbucks. It was at D50, and I knew I had a few minutes
before I absolutely had to be at the gate (I was wading into dangerous
territory here because I’m kind of neurotic about being at the gate at least an
hour before departure…thanks Dad). I
stopped at the remarkably slow Starbucks and ordered a grande iced chai latte
(OMG THANK YOU JESUS FOR ICED CHAI LATTES) and a giant bottle of water. The barista asked me my name, as they’re wont
to do at Starbucks and when I said, “Bethany,” she head, “Becca.” She asked me, “Becca?” I thought for the splittest of split seconds
about correcting her, and then I realized the opportunity the aforementioned
Jesus was giving me for comedy gold. I
let her think it was Becca and watched with self-satisfying amusement as she
wrote it on my cup. Then I took a
picture, which proves that it’s not just an American Starbucks thing. Score.
At this point, however, it’s way past time to get to my gate
and I’m hauling, sucking down my glorious iced chai latte. As soon as I stumble off the moving sidewalk
(I seriously suck at those things), I see a line forming before the gate
sign. Not ever having seen this before,
I just figure the crowds obviously know best and I should fall in
line. So I did. It was the right decision. That’s always an iffy thing with me, because
I’m more likely to blindly follow everyone else than go ask. Sometimes it goes my way, sometimes it
doesn’t. This time, in a foreign
country, it went my way. Thanks again,
JC.
I’m waiting in line and I notice something peculiar. I did not notice it at the SEVENTY-THREE
gates I passed (TWICE), but in Amsterdam, each gate has its own individual
security check-point. This did not bode
well for my giant bottle of water I had just purchased for $5 at the amusing
Starbucks. I certainly couldn’t chug it,
mostly because I don’t chug, but also because by the time I noticed, it was too
late. I hoped they wouldn’t
notice…because that always works. They
noticed, and took it. I weighed my
options. I could either give my best
“you just kicked my puppy and I’m both mad and sad about it” eyes, or I could
understand that TSA doesn’t give a crap about my puppy. So they took my water and I sulked in a
corner for a little while…sure I was going to die from dehydration before my
plane for America took off.
How much would that suck??
I made it this far, and then I die before getting to America because of
the TSA which I have the utmost respect for…
I guess that will teach me to have respect for the people working
tirelessly and thanklessly (seriously people, they have a terrible job) for the
security of us all. Never again, I tell
you.
Once I was through security, I sat by the window looking out
at the plane. Now, I’ve seen
planes. I’ve seen a lot of them. It’s like that time I was talking to
boyfriend about going to a Braves game and he asked if I wanted to go early to
see batting practice. It was very sweet,
but oh my goodness have I seen batting practice… So I’ve got my back to the window. The gate attendant comes on the P.A. system
and says we’re delayed because they’re replacing the front tires. I look up just in time to see every head in
the joint turn and look (some in utter dread).
I can’t help but laugh because, come on, tires need replacing. But people literally watch the whole
process. Some even take pictures of it
happening.
Okay, I took a picture.
Once we got on the flight, I once again thanked my sister
and her neurosis that led to my neurosis about aisle seats. My seatmate said not one word to me the
entire trip. As we were getting ready to
land, I looked over at his claims form and saw that his home country is
Kenya. My guess is that his Swahili is
much better than his English. He also
slept most of the way, and covered his face with a blanket. I wanted to take a picture of that, but
decided that would probably be a very ugly thing to do. I don’t want to be ugly. I’m very self-conscious (give me
compliments).
We landed in D.C. and the only reason I didn’t kiss the
ground is because I haven’t actually been outside yet. Despite the fact that I’m on American soil, I
still have yet to see any soil. Georgia
red clay, here I come!!
I breezed through passport control and customs (and by
“breezed” I mean trudged through like cows being herded in an hour long process
which I am thankful didn’t take any longer).
With all five of my bags precariously perched on a cart much smaller
than I needed, I headed to the Delta counter to re-check them for the final leg
of my flight. Walking up, I noticed a
bag just sitting there. That’s not the
kind of thing that is generally considered okay in an airport, and I must
admit, I was nervous. It’s the first
time I’ve ever been nervous in an airport.
I mentioned it to the check-in agent by asking, “Does this bag belong to
someone?” She responded, “That would be
the assumption.” I still kind of want to
report her to the Delta gods or whomever handles that kind of thing. Whether or not she knew the bag was there,
and whether or not she knew who it belonged to, the appropriate response to my
genuinely concerned inquiry about airport safety is NOT, “That would be the
assumption.” I let it go, though,
because, again, fatigue. I told her my
bags had already been tagged and paid for, all they needed to do was put them
on the plane. She called a guy over,
telling him I had three bags. I pulled
them off my cart and put them on the scales.
He pulled them off the scales and put them on the conveyor belt. Then they both looked at me expectantly,
waiting for their tip. Normally, I’m one
of the best people for this because Dad and airport decorum and whatnot. But after her response to my question and his
lack of actually doing anything at all, I was less than inclined to offer them
a “way to go guys.” Dad confirmed for me
that I had made the right decision.
And now, here I sit, waiting for my flight to Atlanta. As I made my way to the gate, I recalled a
conversation I had had with my friend Patrick, the American at Bellville
Presbyterian outside of Cape Town. He
asked me what my first meal back in the States would be. Without hesitation I answered,
“Chick-fil-A.” I had to eat crow on
that, however, because it was dinner time and I was hungry, and this being
D.C., there wasn’t a CFA in sight. So I
settled for a day-old Turkey BLTA (avo) wrap.
It was less than stellar for my first meal back, but it gave me a good
excuse to make jokes. Unfortunately, I
think I failed at the jokes. I’m le
tired.
