Over the Hill and Through the Woods... via Memphis

Or, Why I Can Pick on Tennessee and You Can't

It seems, for the most part, I might have outlived the infamous air travel jinx of 2006/2007. For the most part, my comings and goings over the last year or so have been basically uneventful. I mean, only pussies complain about 2-hour delays anyway, right?

Nonetheless, scoring a layover at the Memphis airport while on the way home to Nashville is something of a special early gift-- and one that I must share.

After being deposited back on the ground after my flight from DC, I dutifully made my way to to Gate B4-- along the way, passing many wondrous food-vending establishments. Oh, heaven help me, I was back in Tennessee. There was a barbecue joint and little stands selling pralines (PRAH-leens!) and there was a Backyard Burger. Now, I haven't eaten a burger in over two years, I'm sure of it. But not for lack of love for them. Man, do I have fond memories of the Backyard Burger. This is pretty much the only fast food "restaurant" I'd ever condescend to patronize. The burgers are actually made of meat, not some aggregate of soy sludge, amalgamated animal fats and a (not) healthy plug from the jar labeled "MEAT FLAVORING" from the lab--er, I mean, "test kitchens." And, sure, they're always significantly overcooked. But still-- it actually tastes like food... food that one might find in the backyard of one minimally skilled in the art of grilling... but like real food nonetheless. In short, temptations abounded.

I made my way down the corridor and discovered that my flight's departure time had been pushed back about an hour and 40 minutes. Given my already two-hour long layover, I probably could have just rented a car and showed up at my parents' place in better time than actually waiting for my plane would require. But, whatever. I'd already paid for this second leg of my flight. And an hour and 40 minutes? I don't even get bored with watching the freakshow that is the American airport-going public in that short epoch. Besides, a friend had given me the manuscript to one of his novels to peruse and I was already duly ensconced therein. (Predictably, my favorite parts of this book are when the narrator discusses his penis. I am a dog and my master is Pavlov.)

So, I sat down, pulled out my impressive binder-clipped sheaf of paper and set to reading. No sooner had I done so than three gentlemen arrived at the gate. As the first one rounded a column that had been shielding my presence from general view, I hear, "My, my, what beautiful curls." Pretending I didn't know he was talking about me, I peeked over the rim of my new (tres chic) nerd goggles, and got quite a load of these characters. And then quickly resumed reading, so as to not look like I wanted to participate in the conversation.

The two younger ones embodied just about every backwoods stereotype of which I can think. They had their trucker caps and their Bud Lite bellies, their sunburned necks (even in December) and their plaid shirts under nylon vests with some sort of sports team insignia. Have I mentioned the mullets? No joke. Mullets. Wow. And I would hedge my bets that the reason these two fellows had such difficulty finding their indoor voices was because they so rarely set foot actually inside of doors. And the third was clearly their father. I say "clearly" not because there was some undeniable family resemblance, but because the other two kept yelling, "Dad?! Hey, Dad!!" at him. And poor man, he was generally befuddled. He didn't really look much older than my own parents, but certainly lacked their wherewithal.

They spent a good 10 minutes trying to get him settled and explaining to the old guy how to board a plane in their absence. In that time, they addressed me several times, as though I was somehow invested in whether or not the guy boarded the plane correctly and actually made it all the way to Nash Vegas. The younger one leaned into me and said, all conspiratorial-like, "You know, honey... if you get up to use the restroom, or get some grub or somethin', why doncha just bring ol' Dad with ya? " And then he leaned back over to his father and said, "See there, Dad? There are beautiful women here who're HEPPY to take care of ya." Aw, shucks. Meanwhile, I'm busy parsing away in my head-- just what exactly is my community obligation to these crazy folks? Am I actually required to take care of this man now? Whatever did I do to merit these people infringing on my anonymous air traveler status? Oh, help. Help me, oh. Help.

So, Dad continues to ask where the boys are going and what he's supposed to do and how long he has to sit there and where the bathrooms are. And then the boys prepare to leave. This time, the second one leans in-- close enough for me to smell his cowboy cologne and whatever quantity of Bud Lite he's managed to excrete from his skin, and says to me, "Truly, girl. You have some LURVELY hair. Can you just keep an eye out? Make sure Dad gets on the aircraft?" I, of course, being the citified island that I am, offer what I hope is an enigmatic smile and do not assent.

Meanwhile a couple on the other side of the gate has been watching the whole show and the woman has collapsed against her husband's chest with laughter. Obviously, I'm uncomfortable. Obviously, I'm also amused. So, I hear this woman laughing and begin shaking. I do not wish to make fun of these friendly gentlemen (to their faces-- on my blog is a completely other matter), but it's altogether too much. My body can only contain just so much mirth before it gives way, quakes out of control. The woman across the gate is no help. No help at all.

"Bye, Dad!" the older one hollers, not only audibly, but still quite loudly from three gates on down the concourse.

Long about this time, the elderly woman in the bank of chairs in front of me whips around and says, "You know whut? My chil'ren do the same thing. They just worry... Hey, you know whut? That barbecue place down there is right tasty. I just had me sum. You ought'n get up there and get you sum. Hey, you know whut? I've never seen a plane delayed this long. Can you believe it? Nearly two hours! Hey, you know whut?..." and so on. By this point, the woman across the gate is laughing SO hard at me, me with my eyes wide with disbelief (internally thinking, you mean, people still talk to strangers? What IS this Memphis place? Where AM I? Is this still the America of my self-involvement? My America of public insularity? What is fucking going on here?), that I really can't contain it either. I allow myself a few stifled chortles when, what's this? A second elderly woman behind me taps my shoulder and says, "Do you have a cellphone?"

I say, "Yeeeesss...?" She says, "Can you call someone for me? I'll give you money for it." Not wanting to explain the whole cellphone system wherein, seeing as I haven't yet used all my minutes this month and my calls are essentially already paid for, and in which she can't exactly hand me a dime and call it even, I say, "well, the calls are free, ma'am... and you can borrow the phone if you like." And I hand it to her. And she looks at it. She huffs a little. Looks at it. Says, "I don't know what to do with it." Recognizing that, indeed, Memphis airport is like the Brigadoon-iest of all Brigadoon-ish time warps, I retrieve my phone from her hand and ask the number she'd like me to dial. She does not know the area code. Because she is also awaiting the flight from Memphis to Nashville, I take a wild stab and ask if it's a 615 number in Nashville. Success! Her eyes catch flame and she manages to have a profitable conversation on my phone.

Surely, now, I can go back to reading the stack of paper in my lap, right? Surely no other strangers will see me, amongst all the other quietly waiting anonymous travelers, as the most approachable of the lot? Please?

At this point, the old dude who was abandoned to my dubious care by his two sons, figures out how to work his own cell phone. This is what he is saying: "Yeah. Two hours. I'm just sittin' here. I'm sittin' here like a fuck'n' idiot for two fuck'n' hours. I guess the plane is delayed. I don't know. They don't tell us nuthin'. Cuz they think we're idiots. So, I'm sittin' here like an idiot. I ain't got no place else to go. So, I'm a dunce. That's right. I said I'm a fuck'n' dunce. That's how these people treat me. Cuz I'm a fuck'n' idiot." Yeah, I know. As though a plane delay was somehow an insult to this man's intelligence. I'm not sure I understand the connection either. And when was the last time you heard anyone use the word "dunce?" Yes, I'll admit-- I kinda fell a little bit in love with old dude at that moment. Way to revive an archaism, man!

And now, finally, a chubby kid with an improbable quantity of iPod cords coming and going begins to chime in. "It's a plane delay, sir. It's probably just the weather. It's not any big deal. And besides. I missed my flight earlier. I've been sitting here for 6 hours already. I've had a real bad day. You see, I was supposed to meet with my college advisor to make sure I get my classes next semester. Because of this delay, I don't know if I'm gonna be in school or getting a job next year. I've had a real bad day. I think it's because of all the job losses in the airplane industry. Y'all heard about that? Yeah, that must be it. Sir, the bathroom's down there (pointing); I heard you asking about it a while back. Just down there. Sir, it's just a delay. It's ok. Just sit here. Like me. I've been here for 6 hours..." and so on.

Then the kid looks over at the "Hey, you know whut" lady and I swear to god, it's love at first sight. Two folks who talk in paragraphs and don't listen for answers? They get to chatting and I am, at last, off the hook.

Sometimes airports are rough on the introverts, eh? Particularly, it seems, in Memphis.

So, now, ladies and gentlemen-- let me say this. I realize I've made myself into a big ol' citified East coast bitch at this point. I know this. I accept this. I own this. Nonetheless, I still consider this great state of Tennessee to be the home of my youth, and therefore the resting grounds of my roots. A lot of things about this state make me crazy. Its voting record in, ahem, a certain recent election is not the least of those crazy-making things. I feel about this state something like I might feel if I had an autistic older brother. I can talk smack about Tennessee all I want... but my smacktalk is muddled with love. If any of my Yankee-fied friends do the same? Yeah, they'll have me to answer to. Got it?

So, unless you live here, I don't wanna see a single comment against Southerners. We may all be crazy and we may not have all seen to political light, and some of us may not have any concept of personal boundaries within a mass-transportation-type venue, but if you're not one of us, you probably just don't get us. And therefore, it's best you not judge us.

Thank you, and to all a pleasant winter festivus.

And no, I did not see whether the old man made it on the plane. Shame on me. I am so lousy at that it-takes-a-village thing.

The year in review: a troubled travel log

I've done a fair amount of traveling in the last 6 months. Somehow, it seems I'm managed to acquire some really rotten airport karma. Here's a run-down of all my recent air-related fun and games:

Last April:
Went to Phoenix for my cousin Steve's wedding. No big deal. Very smooth trip, all things considered. A good time was had by all.

Last May:
Went to Baltimore for work for two weeks. Flying out was no problem. Returning to Nashville, I had about a 4 hour delay. At the time, I thought that was horrible. Little did I know what was in store for me... I think this was a Southwest flight.

End of June:
Flew to Reagan National for a job interview. Flying out was no problem. Returning to Nashville, I got to the airport really early because AIR booked my flight for, like, 7:30 at night and my interview was over at 2 pm. By the time 7:30 rolls around, my flight is already delayed until 10:15. When the plane finally arrives at the gate, I'd been in the airport for about 6 hours already... and then they cheerfully announce that they're canceling the flight due to "crew exhaustion." They put me up in a Hilton in Crystal City (a very lovely establishment, really) though they refuse to give me my suitcase. At the time, I couldn't imagine anything worse than this. But luckily, the hotel was across the street from a CVS where I could buy contact solution and deodorant. Yay!. Of course, in my short walk to the drugstore, no less that two low-slung vehicles sidled up next to me and propositioned me (I was not aware that my appearance was so whore-like). Generally, Crystal City isn't such a bad neighborhood in Arlington... but at 1 in the morning, well... I don't recommend walking to CVS in holey jeans and sassy high-healed sandals. The next morning, I went back to Reagan and my flight was delayed another 2 hours but I eventually made it home. I'd found some mascara and a lipgloss (this was pre-lipgloss-confiscation-era) and looked only slightly fuzzy about the head when I got there! I think this was a Continental flight.

Mid August:
I'd found out I'd gotten the job in DC and my mom and I decided to fly back out there so I could spend a couple of days hunting for an apartment. Again, flying out was no problem. We were scheduled to leave the DC area and return to Nashville, but the day before our departure, we got a call from my brother in Tucson that my sister-in-law had gone into labor. Mom and I dropped everything and changed the tickets so we could go to Tucson. We get into the air, leaving from the BWI airport, and we could feel the plane slowing down. That's certainly a strange sensation! The pilot then announced that there was a mysterious light on. So, he diverted us to Dulles. We stayed on the ground for another 2 1/2 hours. We missed our connector in Dallas. This time, the airline puts us up in the worst rathole I could ever have imagined. May I suggest to you, my reader(s?), that you avoid all Homestead Suites at all costs. This hotel was way out in a desolate hotel park quasi-near the DFW airport. There were no drugstores nearby this time. Not even a gas station. And, as the regularly scheduled feminine event befell me about 5 days early that month, I was, let's say, under-prepared. I found myself pleading with a cranky desk attendant for a tampon, saying something along the lines of, "Well, they're YOUR sheets, buddy!" When Mom and I made it up to the room (on a supposedly non-smoking floor) we were less than impressed. It reeked of cigarettes... and yep, I'm miserably allergic (and occasionally enjoy making my smoker friends feel guilty about it). The pillows felt something like day-old polenta. And this flophouse provided one sad little bar of soap... no toothbrush, no shampoo... no tampons, certainly. And obviously, no contact solution or deodorant. And, as they'd recently instituted the fear-o-liquids rule at the airport, I didn't even have a lipgloss-- and no, they didn't give us our suitcases this time either. And it was August. And we'd been trundling about DC looking for a place for me to live all day prior to this misbegotten flight. When we awoke the following morning, I was completely congested due to the smoke and my eyes were swollen shut (from sleeping in contacts, compounding the smoke allergy issue), we both stank like some sad little refugees, I had a pretty good frizz-halo going on, and I was haphazardly shedding my uterine lining. We left the shithole as early as possible and went to the airport where my mom was able to find a delightful Dale Evans t-shirt (we were in Texas afterall) and I finally found a tampon and our re-scheduled flight to Tucson left on time and we finally got to meet my new little nephew (please visit old posts if you need photographic evidence of his enduring cuteness). I know this flight was via American Fucking Airlines. Our return flight was relatively smooth.

Thanksgiving:
Back and forth to Nashville. Everything came and went as planned, thank old Jimmy in heaven. It even worked out that my fabulous friend Bob could pick me up at the airport and hang out at my place for a night... as a little detour on his way back to Nashville from Pennsylvania. Saved me cab fare, even! What a champ, that Bob!

Early-mid December:
Flew to Honolulu for work. The trip out was really long but un-eventful for the most part. The first leg landed me at O'Hare... and,on that flight, I sat next to a curious fellow who kept hinting that he and I should get together and "go clubbing" whenever he visits DC. I found his persistent interest in me a little baffling as I'm pretty sure he was gay. Every time I picked up my book, he'd interrupt to chat. Every time I tried to dose off, he's poke me for some more great chatting. Fortunately, I managed to avoid giving him my email at the end of the flight. On the 9-hour flight from O'Hare to Honolulu, I sat next to a 10-year-old girl from someplace near Toronto. She asked me a lot a questions about American geography as she didn't understand that we had to fly over a whole lotta land between Chicago and the California coast. Then, she and I played cards for a while--Crazy 8s, then War. Then, she made me take all the quizzes in her "Tiger Beat." As it turns out, I should not date my best guy friend, my BFF Style is "supportive" and the right guy for me is the "sweet, sensitive" sort (as opposed to a "Sporty" or an "Artsy"... teen magazines are clearly very nuanced). Obviously, I learned much in my 9 hours trapped with a preteen. The return flight was a red-eye-- what a joy! I left Honolulu last Sunday around 1:30 pm. I got to LAX around 9:30 pm. I left LAX around 11:30 and arrived at O'Hare at 5am--*yawn*. Generally, I prefer sitting on the aisle so I can get off the plane quicker but I highly recommend window seats if you've gotta fly overnight. At some point in the middle of that night, I began thinking that I'd be so much more comfortable if I could just take my very heavy head off and rest it in my lap. My neck had become a real, um, pain in the neck. Quite literally. When I arrived in Chicago, I discovered (oh, tell me that you haven't seen this one coming) my last leg--from O'Hare back to Reagan-- had been canceled. Fortunately, the holiday season had not yet begun in earnest and I was able to get on another flight that left 4 hours later. I finally made it home by about 1 pm on Monday. I took the day off and slept and did laundry to prepare for my Christmas venture, which was scheduled to begin three days later. That was a relatively smooth United flight.

Christmas (the most ill-fated of them all):
On Thursday afternoon, I left work early and went to Reagan airport, with high hopes of reaching Tucson by late that night. When I got there, I learned that my flight to O'Hare was delayed 4 hours (no big deal at this point) due to weather in Chicago. I was thinking, "Hey! At least it's not Denver!" My connector to Tucson was also delayed, so I still had hope that I wouldn't miss it. Roughly 3 hours after the flight had been originally scheduled to leave, the poor bedraggled woman behind the counter announced that all planes heading west of the Mississippi from O'Hare were canceled. I got on my cellphone with an American Airlines dude and he tells me that, if I get on the Chicago flight, I'll be stuck in Chicago for 2 days as there's not another empty seat anywhere until late on Saturday. He says that I can go home and he'd reschedule me to leave from Dulles, go to DFW, then on to Tucson on Friday night... and I agree to this with some misgivings about getting stuck in Dallas again. So, I go home, somewhat furious, have a beer and fire off one nasty-ass blue streak of an email to the American Airlines customer service center. Friday morning, I sleep late (because I'd already told my supervisor at work that I was going to be out of town), did a long yoga practice so as to engender calmness and mindfulness in my upcoming evening of travels, re-packed, took a long cab ride out to Dulles and arrived at the airport good and early for my 7:25 flight. But oh, yes, I soon learned that it, too, was delayed and the dude at the ticket counter assured me that I would miss my connector. By this point, I was really fighting tears and called me mom to ask whether or not I should give up and just skip Christmas this year. She verbally slapped me around and convinced me to forge ahead. When I got to the gate, I spent a long while, first swearing, then crying, then flirting with the gate counter guy while he looked around for another connector to Tucson for me. He kept telling me that I could get to Dallas but that the next available flight wasn't until Christmas Eve afternoon. Ridiculous! According to some news reports I've been listening to lately, the airlines all had this brilliant idea to retire some perfectly functional airplanes, thus thinning out some travel routes, in order to reduce empty seats and increase their earnings. Now, that's great for stock-holders, especially as they've been able to jack up ticket prices by 30+% this holiday season, but what ends up happening is that, if there's any weather issues or other sorts of delays, there's no way to re-book people on other flights. There's just no room for error. And this gate counter guy was telling me that American in particular retired a bunch of brand new TWA planes because the only people who could fly them were former TWA pilots... and so, I've been led to believe that stupid industry politics are responsible for my getting stranded in Dallas for the second time in 4 months. I did, in fact, make it to Dallas last night--- around 1 am--but my ticket got upgraded to first class. And shortly before I boarded, Lawrence, the gate counter dude, came and whispered in my ear that he found an empty seat on a 1:45 pm flight from Dallas to Tucson-- also first class! And this time, when I got to Dallas, however, they put me up in a Westin, bless their little airline hearts! And, because I'd done this a few times, I managed to talk Lawrence into having my suitcase tagged so I could get it off the carousel in Dallas. Oh, how my fellow stranded travelers envied me! So, I got about 5 hours of sleep --with my contacts out-- and was even able to wash my hair with my own shampoo this morning. And I had clean clothes to put on! Imagine! And so, I finally made it to Tucson on Saturday afternoon, as opposed to Thursday night--- I've wasted the lion's share of 3 days in airports, instead of hanging out with my family. But I'm here. And it's Christmas. And I've got loads of wrapping to do before I rest. And loads of wrapping before I rest...

The moral of this story is: Boycott American Airlines. They blow goats. I have photographic proof.

my itinerary

Hi, folks! I know my posts have become sporadic over the past couple of weeks but they're about to get moreso. Here's the deal--I'll be in:

Nashville: November 21st-27th (Jon, 'Rents, Cotillionistas-- that means you guys are up first on my social calendar.)
DC: November 28th-December 8th (There may or may not be a martini hour in the works to mark the beginning of my 3rd decade on Dec. 2nd, for anyone local, who's interested.)
Honolulu: December 9th-17th (For anyone who's jealous, trust me, this is gonna be a work trip. Yes, I bought a new bikini because I'm optimistic, but if it doesn't make it out of my suitcase, I won't be surprised.)
LA: The night of the 17th (Brian, you damn well better be up for a midnight beverage. It's been at least 13 years since I've been in LA and at least 7 since I've seen you!)
DC: December 18th-20th (I should be totally incommunicado for most of Monday as I'll have just taken the red-eye in from LA.)
Tucson: December 21st-27th (Anyone in the area who is up for a round of yuletide cheer, well, you should shoot me an email!)

So, long story short, I'll be paying a rather exorbitant sum for "rent" when my apartment is really just a quasi-posh storage unit for all my crap for the next 5 weeks.

I hope everyone has a lovely holiday season--and one that is far less exhausting than mine is likely to be!