(Back story: I originally wrote this in October 2010, when I was on the way to my parents’ house for my annual trip. My brother and I head to the Great Northwoods every autumn to help them get ready for winter. It’s a week of chopping wood, cleaning garages, and generally repairing things. That’s right, ladies; I take care of my parents AND occasionally do really masculine things. Form an orderly queue.)
I showed up about 9:00am for a 10:15 flight. The early arrival was necessary, because due to some sort of snafu by Expedia (dot commmmmmm!), I couldn’t check in online, so I had to deal with the unwashed masses at the LaGuardia check-in counter, which for some reason is now called “Special Services.” Is it really that special for someone to check in prior to air travel? That actually seems rather mundane to me. I guess “Mundane Services” is not so inviting.
Anyway, I spent literally 10 minutes being “next,” while my fellow travelers debated with the poor agent the intricacies of checked bag fees and the perpetually confusing issue of “if my ticket is for tomorrow, can I just show up today and get on?” (Answer: no.) With those philosophical matters resolved, it was my turn to check in…except, again no such luck. Something about my boarding pass required a flight coupon. Did I have a different reservation and rebook, Myrna (great name) asked? Nope, Myrna, I’ve had this same rez since July.
(Side note: when the trip was originally planned, my ex and I were together and she was meant to accompany me. In the intervening months, we — obviously — broke up. Around this time I start to think that somehow canceling her reservation was going to fuck mine up. Wouldn’t that just be a great kick in the balls? Sorry, sir, you can’t fly home because your girlfriend dumped you. Yikes. I was already fantasizing about the angry phone call full of scathing remarks about backing out on agreements and generally not being an asshole. Of course, that’s completely irrational, and I’m not an absolute nut job, so I wouldn’t have actually done it. Probably. But I digress…)
So, Myrna gets on the horn (ever see a customer service agent call customer service? It’s like when you look into a mirror but have another mirror behind you so you just keep seeing your own reflection forever into infinity. It’s mind boggling. I considered taking a picture but I thought it might break the lens or turn me to stone or something.) and gets it all cleared up.
A routine disrobe, magnetometer scan and delousing later (I’m considering opting for the pat frisk from now on. Your thoughts.), I’m through the portal to the magical land of Gate 4. There are approximately 1.7 million people in this gate with me. Never really realized sunny Minneapolis was such a big draw. I hope I don’t have to share a seat belt with more than 2 people. That might be awkward. Especially if they’re tourists. They’ll ask me questions and I’ll have to pretend to know things about Ground Zero and Mulberry Street Pizza.
Good god, it’s too early to be in Queens. Boarding soon. Hope I don’t die in Minneapolis. I might rather be in New Jersey. Fucking Minneapolis…