I just wanna fly.

A tale of two three FOUR?!?  SERIOUSLY?!? cities...

Pretty much anyone who has talked to me in the last couple of weeks knows that I am going to be in New Orleans for the next week - a business trip with a little vacation mixed in that I have been looking forward to for about 6 months now.  And these same people have a tendency, when something exciting like this happens to me, to ask something along the lines of, "are you SO excited???" only to get a response along the lines of "meh."  This trip has been a major exception - I have been completely unable to contain my enthusiasm and anticipation because I am so thoroughly excited about it in every way.  The following shall henceforth serve as a reminder to myself of why I generally hedge my enthusiasm for exciting developments until they ACTUALLY develop.  Also, be forewarned - this is long and not terribly exciting, much like the last 24 hours.  But it is, at the very least, illustrated.

 

So Friday afternoon, after a slow, snowy bus ride, I arrive at the airport not too terribly late, considering.  I wait in a very slow-moving line, only to be told, "yeah, okay, that one's going to be delayed three hours." 

Stupid New Jersey.

Apparently, the weather is worse in Newark than it is in Toronto.  Apparently.  Stupid no-good winter.  So naturally, since I had less than an hour to make my connection, I will not be making it to New Orleans tonight as scheduled.

 

Well, shit.

 

He tries to put me on a 7:30 flight Saturday morning, which will go through Cleveland but still get me to NO in time for lunch.  <sigh> Okay, I guess I can live with that.  There's one seat left, and it will soon be mine.

Except as he's trying to book it, they cancel the flight.

 

Double shit.

 

So now I have a 6:30 flight, connecting in Newark, then Houston, THEN New Orleans.  My full Saturday of lovely bohemian tourism in the French Quarter is disintegrating before my very eyes.  Well, at least I'll get there in time to settle in and have a couple of hours of daylight left.  That'll have to do.

 

Except there's another, more pressing problem than precious hours of vacation being lost.  My only source of transportation in Toronto is public transit.  Getting to my house from the airport takes a good two hours on a GOOD day, and it's smack in the middle of rush hour.  And snowing.

 

I see your double shit and raise you a steaming pile of crap.

 

So I decide to rent a car and drive home, which will be cheaper than staying at an airport hotel or taking a cab, allow me to get a few hours' sleep in my own bed, and get back to the airport by 4:30 AM without having to take night buses to do so.  I just don't have it in me to lug my luggage back and forth on the transit journey, and just plain don't feel like spending the night in a hotel when I know I have a good 9 nights of that still ahead of me. 

 

So let's get this straight: I now have a car.  In rush hour.  And it is snowing.  I live right off of the highway that goes straight to the airport - Mapquest estimates the drive at about 27 minutes.  Anyone want to place a bet on how long it actually took me to get home?  Anyone?  Bueller?

How about 3 1/2 hours? 

In a car with no CD player, whose rear defrost just seems to shut off whenever the hell it feels like it.  You know what I learned in the course of that drive?  Two things: 1) I am never buying a Dodge Avenger and 2) MAN does Canadian radio suck.  Even more so than American radio, and that, my friends, is saying something.

 

I raise you a flaming bag of dog poo.

 

So I finally get home, let the Landlords know that I'm home so they don't freak out when they hear noises coming from downstairs and/or see a strange car blocking theirs into the driveway because the snowdrifts have left me nowhere to park on the street, and try to settle in.  After a beer to take the edge off, an order of fish and chips, a very brief and fitful nap, and an hour and a half of late-night Alton Brown, I brush my teeth and bundle myself back into the car at 3:30 AM to begin my do-over.  This time, the trip to the airport actually takes the prescribed amount of time, and even with a couple of quick stops and turning in the rental, I'm about 10 minutes earlier than planned.  At this point, there are long lines, but everything seems to be going the way it should - the customs line is longer than I have ever seen it, teeming with middle-aged couples headed off on cruises, like some sort of yuppie Ellis Island.  Give me your empty nesters, your DINKs, your pale and pasty masses, yearning to eat buffets until their asses expand to the point that, during their snorkeling expedition, they are mistaken for a small tropical port-of-call...um, where was I?  Oh yes, I am reminded why I NEVER schedule flights for Saturday mornings.  After breakfast of the world's worst muffin, croissant, and coffee (seriously...all three were ABYSMAL), I finally arrive at my gate, where I find an outlet for my computer and cell phone charger and begin writing this post. 

This is what 7 hours of sleep over two nights looks like at 5 AM.  Ain't a pretty picture, is it?

 

Now, as I'm sitting here typing, I'm starting to think, "hey, shouldn't we be, like, getting on the plane soon?"  But it seems every plane boards and takes off late, yet arrives on time or early, while others board on time and arrive hours late, so I'm trying not to fret.  Except my layover in Newark is, once again, less than an hour, so I'm a little more tense than usual.  But my tension fades after takeoff when the Dingbat Flight Attendant gives me the whole can of Diet Coke!  Getting the whole can on a plane is one of those small pleasures on a long trip that you have to cling to:

Mine!  ALL MINE!!!  MUAHAHAHA!!!

As is taking maniacal self-portraits with your webcam.  I'm sure Fearless Leader is glad to see me putting my new work computer to good use.

The plane lands in Newark about the time my connecting flight is supposed to begin boarding, so I'm thinking, yeah, it'll be tight, but I can still make it.  Um...except we don't have a gate. 

Ever circled a parking lot, trying to find a space?  This is the first time I've had to do that in an airplane. 

WHY IS THERE ANOTHER PLANE IN OUR GATE???  IT'S NOT LIKE THEY DIDN'T KNOW WE WERE COMING. 

Hey buddy, we CLEARLY HAD OUR BLINKER ON FIRST.

So we sit there. 

And sit there. 

And the adorably disarming man flying alone with the adorable baby is starting to fret because the adorable baby is getting understandably and not particularly adorably fussy.  And I hear the guy next to him tell him that he is supposed to be catching the same flight that I am to Houston.

And I start to think, "Hey, as soon as my connecting flight takes off, THEN there'll be a gate available..."

Sure enough, I'm standing there, waiting for my gate-checked carry-on when my next flight pulls away from the gate.  Of course, I don't know this yet, so in a fit of wanton and completely unmerited optimism, I hurry mine ass to the connecting gate, just in case my second flight has been delayed or held for the passengers that they know have been stuck on the tarmac waiting for a parking space. 

Yeah, no such luck.

 

This is where I would like to pick up Continental Airlines by the scruff of the neck and rub their nose in the mess they have made on the carpet of my vacation/business trip.  But since I am still short of breath from the sprint with my carry-on and laptop in tow, I go to the Continental customer service counter to get my THIRD itinerary for this trip.  Where I am informed that I will now be arriving in New Orleans at 7 PM.  So my lovely bohemian late afternoon of sightseeing has now been reduced to a late supper if I'm lucky.

This makes the Wahooty very sad:

Seriously.  Even started tearing up when I was waiting at the counter for my new boarding passes.  I mean, I'm low on sleep, being cheated out of a much-needed day of relaxation and sunshine, and I never even got an apology.  At least the guy at the counter in Toronto expressed genuine concern about the inconvenience I was being caused and offered suggestions on how to play on the sympathies of the hotels in order to get a cheaper rate so I wouldn't have to go all the way home.

 

Okay, Continental, I see your shit-demon and call it. 

 

This is also where the Wahooty begins mulling the possibility of having a beer at 9 AM for the first time ever outside of a tailgating scenario:

I run into the guy from my first flight in the bar, so we spend our two-hour delay having a couple of beers and chatting, which turned out to be quite pleasant.  If nothing else, at least I can say that today I met an interesting Colombian (who is not, for the record, a cocaine kingpin).  And not everyone can say that.  And he does live and work in Toronto, so maybe I got a new friend out of the flaming shit-demon that is this trip.  Only time will tell.

 

As I finally board my second flight of the day, I am thanking my lucky stars that I have a) a laptop with a decent battery and b) four discs of Danger Mouse with me to watch on the plane.  Because I have a lot of time to kill, and on less than 2 hours' sleep there's only so long you can read a book before you lose consciousness.  And because I know you're dying to know, this is what it looks like when I watch Danger Mouse after two beers:

Oo, look, pretty mountains!

Now, when THIS plane lands, you'll never guess what happens....

Yup. 

Eventually, the pilot comes on the PA to update us on the situation, and says, "Okay, we're all straightened out now...they had to bring out a cart to start the plane in our gate, but now...well...I actually have no idea what they're doing now."

I shit you not.

So my pilot may have no idea what's going on, but at least none of MY planes have needed a freaking JUMP START to get out of the gate.

 

Which brings me to the present, when I'm sitting at my departure gate in Houston, with about 75 minutes yet to kill until my final flight is supposed to begin boarding, and listening to a boarding call at the next gate over for a flight to New Orleans.  There had damned well better be asses in every single seat on that plane, because at this point, I could have WALKED to New Orleans faster than this. 

 

Oh, and I bet I know what you're thinking - the perfect ending to this story would be my luggage not making it to New Orleans with me.  Actually, it made it here FASTER than I did - my flight was delayed by about half an hour, but I got off the plane and it was waiting at the baggage carousel from some earlier flight.  So there may not have been room for my ass on one of those flights, but at least there was room for my underwear.