My travel home from Florida to Oregon was fraught. My cousin and I were both flying out of the same airport, so we mindfully arrived two hours early. So demure. This gave us time to eat together and browse the shops. We said our goodbyes, and I leisurely strolled through security to arrive at my gate a half an hour before the boarding time. To my horror, it was not my boarding gate. My boarding gate was 82 not 56. In some places, this would not be a big problem, but the way that the Orlando airport is laid out, I had to take a train and go through TSA again. So now I was speeding down hallways and winding through a second serpentine security line. I swear the second one went twice as long as the first. Was it really slow, or was I just under a ticking clock in the Florida humidity?
All my flop sweat was for nothing when I showed up at the second gate and saw the sign announcing a two-hour weather related delay. As I cooled my heels, Florida man showed up to entertain us all with some insane ranting at a ticket agent that ended with his dramatic escort out by security. I’m sure if you Google it, someone will have posted a video.
The flight itself was fairly pleasant. I sat next to a charming eight-year-old boy who was traveling between his divorced parents’ homes. He told me all about his computer games, his favorite shows and even some facts about Korea. I guess with confidence and iPad you can do anything.
When I arrived in Denver, my departure had been changed by nine gates. I had few minutes to sprint across several acres. They were annoucing my boarding group as I shuffled across a crowded travelator. Again, I arrived at my gate to find another delay. The airline was offering checking for bags to free up space in the seated area of the plane. I handed over my duffel without much thought.
On my second flight, I was seated next to a less-than-charming gentleman who told me about how Portland was burning, liberal sh*t hole. I asked him where he lived and he said he was going to Vancouver. Conclude what you will. I put in my dead earbuds and pretended to sleep to avoid the rest of the conversation.
We finally arrived in Portland after 3 AM. My cell phone had completely died, but I didn’t worry about as I grabbed my bag from baggage I hopped on the free shuttle to ride out to economy parking. I noticed that there was a blue shuttle and a red shuttle. I didn’t remember that there was two parts of the economy lot. I was pretty sure that I was parked in the red lot. As the shuttle drove through the lot, the squawk-box announced all of the stops A, B, C, D. Thankfully, I had had the foresight to jot down the letter and number of where I had parked on the entry ticket. Unfortunately, I could not find the ticket in my bag. Instead, I discovered a shattered commemorative glass that our company had given us at the award ceremony on the last night. I had handed over my luggage to the ground crew completely forgetting I had fragile items in there.
Now, I was bleeding and ticketless, lost in an alphabet of cars. I bailed from the shuttle somewhere in the H section. H for hell, probably. I wandered up and down the lanes jabbing the panic button my key fob, hoping it would trigger the alarm. Honestly, they should just call it the parking button and be done with it. Surprisingly, I did find my car (J section) even though the alarm never went off. For future reference, it is a white Nissan. On the way out, the ticket agent was able to look up when I had arrived so I didn’t have to pay extra.
Finally, finally, I pulled into my driveway and tiptoed into my bedroom. While I was taking off my socks, my husband‘s alarm went off. It’s so good to be home.
