I’ve had my share of difficult travels. I’ve crashed a dinghy and lost an outboard motor in a stalagmite-studded New Zealand tidal cave. I’ve battled legions of leeches in a Tasmanian swamp. I’ve simultaneously vomited and experienced diarrhea in the mountains of Nepal. But before last week, I had never seen the world beat such a cadence of misfortune against my plans.
Though I already intended to travel to Georgia so I could see my parents and pick up their car, my father’s traffic accident in the same car threw the trip in doubt. Fortunately, he escaped with relatively minor injuries. I decided to buy a return plane ticket and make the most of the situation. A cold virus was the first plague to befall me, and it’s proven to be the worst such sickness I’ve ever had. It’s fair to say that a permanently clogged head magnified my injustice at the events that transpired.
Before leaving on Friday, I consulted the web for information about parking at White Plains Airport. The Westchester government website helpfully lays out the situation:
Flying out of Westchester County Airport? Thinking of driving there? Think again. With more flights to popular destinations than ever before there are simply not enough parking spaces for everyone.”
Heeding their advice, I opted to park my car at the Mount Kisco Metro North Station and take the train down to the airport. Unfortunately, all parking was of the “2-hour” or “Permit Only” variety. I resolved to risk a parking ticket and leave my car, which I’ve dubbed “Big Red”, in a remote corner of a distant parking lot about 1/4 mile away. I grabbed my suitcase and trudged through the freezing rain to the station, only to rethink my decision, return to Big Red, head south and try to find parking at the airport. A call to my father confirmed the wisdom of this decision. And indeed, parking was plentiful despite what I’d read. I happily parked in a long-term lot and headed into the terminal.
My flight was canceled. Two hours from home, I had the option of going back and returning early the next morning, or driving an hour to Laguardia on Long Island, where there was a flight due to leave that evening. I opted for the latter, paid $2.80 for my 10 minutes in the long-term lot, and headed south through the frozen hellscape of New York. Arriving at my second airport of the day, I once again found a long-term lot, parked Big Red and gathered my bags. That’s when the next shoe dropped.
But instead of a shoe, it was the rear, right side of my car, due to the flat tire spread luxuriously across the pavement in the cold rain. It’s unclear how long it had been flat, and a bit worrying to realize that I may have been driving 70 mph with it that way for a quite a while. With the bad weather and my impending flight, I had no choice but to leave it as it was and worry about changing it upon my return.
Big Red is probably the least desirable car in the eyes of an American car thief, with the passenger side door almost impossible to open and the fact that the windows don’t work. The flat tire was a further anti-theft device, but my six months worth of empty beer and soda bottles in the back seat would be a veritable gold mine for any itinerant bum that happened to wander through Laguardia’s Long Term Parking Lot 3. For that reason, I chose to lock the doors, perhaps for the first time ever.
As it turned out, I had plenty of time since my new flight was delayed for two hours. I treated myself to some Au Bon Pain chicken noodle soup and read most of my 4-4-2 magazine at the gate, periodically hooking down cold medication. Two more delays pushed the flight back even further, but we finally got to leave. Aside from the obligatory fat man sitting next to me and helping himself to our mutual armrest, the flight was memorable only for my throbbing head and aching jaw, which I had to work furiously to keep my ears clear for the duration of the flight. It was past midnight when we landed and my head hurt like hell, but it was great to see my parents and get a little sympathy for my troubles.
An excellent visit included dinner out at Murphys, where my limited taste didn’t prevent me from enjoying seared salmon, a tasty pinot and some decadent dessert. I also got to see the Patriots choke in the Super Bowl, eat a deliciously inventive birthday cake, hike at Kennesaw Mountain and enjoy a lovely dinner out on the deck in 70 degree weather. If only I didn’t have to travel again.
Checking the flight status repeatedly during the day on Monday, we saw a variety of predictions. On time, then delayed an hour, then delayed two hours, then delayed one hour, and finally delayed two hours again. I showed up at the airport an hour and a half before the latest predicted time and almost couldn’t check my bag. I got some Serious Attitude from the AirTran man for checking in less than an hour before the scheduled time of the flight
“It’s delayed two hours,” I said.
“But it’s scheduled to leave in 30 minutes,” he said.
“But it’s delayed two hours,” I said. Clearly, he was irate that I didn’t want to show up three hours before the flight was actually going to leave. He slapped some “Nick of Time Check-In!” tags on my bags and let me pass. Naturally, the flight was delayed a few more times. As I told my parents, the only thing worse than changing a tire at 9:30 PM is changing a tire at 12:30 AM.
When we finally got in the air, the flight was about empty and I thought my luck was finally changing. I opted to fill myself with caffeine instead of taking a nap, due to the long night ahead of me. Upon landing, I headed for the bathroom and changed into some warm clothes. True to form, it was 34 degrees and raining in New York. At the baggage claim, there were only a couple of people left. I grabbed one of my bags and waited for the other. And waited. And watched the carousel stop.
Of course, my other bag, full of wine and my more-than-3-ounces-of-liquids overnight bag was MIA. The bag I did have contained nothing but my parents’ TV and a Muslim prayer rug that I acquired in Malaysia, two fine items but not much help in taking out my contact lenses or making me smell better.
The baggage claim woman was actually helpful, and suggested I wait an hour for the next Atlanta flight, which was sure to be carrying my bag. Since I still had a tire to change, that sounded reasonable, so I headed for the parking lot. The nice crisp air, gentle rain and manual labor were actually enjoyable and I changed the tire without trouble. I took Big Red for a few laps around the parking lot. She didn’t seem to mind the prosthetic appendage, so I walked back to the baggage claim. Needless to say, I hung around for an extra 45 minutes and my bag didn’t come on the next flight.
Amazingly, when I walked into the baggage claim service room, there it was! But it wasn’t. It was someone else’s bag that, against the odds, looked exactly like mine. They’d taken mine to Brooklyn and left theirs. What does this oh-so-common bag look like? It’s so common that I couldn’t even find the brand (Fifth Avenue) despite all of my Google chops. I filed the necessary paper work and was told it was arrive on Thursday.
It was 12:45 AM when I paid $80 for my great parking experience and headed for Connecticut. There were no road signs to speak of at the airport exit, so I quickly got lost and called my girlfriend, who got me back on track. And so began the slow crawl northward, going 55 mph in my shattered car. There was nothing to do but turn on the radio and ride it out.
There is a stereotype that New York drivers are assholes. I’d like to add my voice to that school of thought. I was only just over the Tribero Bridge when the car in front of me took a curve too fast and spun out, ending up sideways across the road. Fortunately, my slow pace left me plenty of time to stop and watch with disgust as this particular asshole turned himself around and sped off again at 90 mph.
My progress was steady, my fatigue was manageable and I was optimistic. Then I looked down at the gas gauge: EMPTY.
With a sinking heart, I took the first exit, searched frantically for a gas station, and found one that was closed. I tried the illuminated pump, but it was stopped for the night. My choices were to ride around the ghost town at 1:30 AM looking for gas or head back to the highway and pray that an exit with a gas station wasn’t too far. I chose the latter.
Back on I-95, I soon saw a sign: “Connecticut Welcomes You! Tourism Center, Gas & Food: 9 miles”. Clearly, I didn’t have nine miles worth of fuel left. I needed a miracle. I got it. An exit with a fuel sign loomed in the distance. Gingerly, I guided Big Red onto the exit ramp. As I rounded the curve, she sputtered and bucked. As I came to a stop at the light, she died. Desperately, I put her in park and turned the key. She roared to life. The sign indicated a Shell station to the right and a Mobile station to the left, but didn’t bother to give distances. Blindly, I turned right, and there it was. Yelling with glee, I coasted in on fumes and slaked the thirst of my brave vehicle.
The rest of the trip passed slowly but pleasantly. Stamford, Bridgeport and New Haven drifted by. With a string of classic music from the ’90s, I passed Cromwell, Wethersfield and Hartford. I finally pulled into my parking lot at 3:45 AM on Tuesday morning, for once celebrating my good fortune with a safe arrival. I was going to work in four hours, but so what? I was home.
Have a terrible travel story of your own? Want to tell me to stop being a baby? Share it in the comments.
