4:30 A.M. Besides the billions of birds outside my window, who the hell is up at this hour…willingly? After three Snooze button hits, I drag myself out of bed. I get dressed, make my bed, brush my teeth, and make myself presentable – not in that order. I’m easily distracted, don’t forget.
Once the toiletries are used for morning preparations, I pack them in the suitcase. Hmmm… I can shut this thing without much effort. Must not be well-packed. I think I need more. A ten minute diversion results in an additional shirt and pair of shoes. I have no idea what I’m doing in the next few days – might as well be prepared for anything, right?
I manage to get the 7,000 lb. suitcase up the stairs and out the door without waking anyone in the house. I’m impressed with myself. No time to pat myself on the back, though. I shove the suitcase in the trunk of the CR-V and head for the airport.
I make one minor detour. I stop at the cemetery to visit Brian’s grave. I haven’t been to visit since the headstone debacle was resolved last week. It’s dark, quiet, and still at 10 minutes after 5 in the morning. I talk to Brian briefly. I assume he has some pull in heaven, so I ask for some guidance and a watchful eye on the trip. He was not that great with electronics, so I avoid asking him to keep an eye on the plane.
At the airport, I park the CR-V one spot away from a lone Lexus. I contemplate being that asshole who parks next to the expensive car when there are fifty other spaces available, but decide against it. My CR-V has too many dents and scratches already.
Inside the airport, I’m greeted by the scowl of a Delta Airlines counter agent. When I approach the counter to check my bag, she immediately points to the computer terminal. Like the true automaton she is, she barely says a word. Of course, her face says it all. Imagine the irritation on her face when I tell her that I checked in online the night before, and that I simply need to check my bag. Apparently, most Delta passengers are not this efficient.
Surprisingly, the South Bend Airport TSA agents don’t target me as a potential agent of Al Quaeda. I knew I was safe when the Iraqi-looking man in the priest collar made it through. I’m confident that his outfit was on sale at Fun FX this week. I’m more or less bewildered by the amount of clothing accessories I have to remove before even attempting to pass through the body scanner. The TSA agent uses about five plastic bins to accommodate my shoes, belt, money clip, cell phone, coat, etc. It takes about five minutes to get my stuff back. I get dressed again and make my way to the Concourse.
The Concourse is strangely different than I remember it. It’s huge and now has a coffee shop inside. I approach the counter for coffee. The woman behind the counter looks really upset that she has to cease her morning daydreams to help me. She does eventually smile and wish me a good day, but only after I put my change in the cracked plastic cup marked “TIPS.”
When I sit down to wait, I pull out a crossword puzzle to pass the time. I sit in an area with no one sitting nearby. I mean, it’s almost 6:00A.M. – I don’t feel like being nice and friendly quite yet. Of course, like the true weirdo magnet that I am, I attract the elderly woman with the OCD issue. She continuously checks her boarding pass, expecting the words and information to change. It doesn’t. She also has a problem sitting still – she gets up at least five times in ten minutes to look at the trash can, the boarding area, the plug in the corner, and so many other amazingly intriguing items of interest. She narrowly misses knocking over my coffee twice, as she practically circles my chair.
I decide to make my escape, in the guise of having to pee. I don’t really have to, but I can’t stand the woman’s presence much longer. She has been flipping through the lousy South Bend coupon book she picked up in the entryway. She’s one of those ladies who licks her finger, then turns the page. I cannot stand that. I can actually hear her lick her finger, like she’s stroking sandpaper with her tongue.
The bathroom in the Councourse is as far from the waiting area as possible. If you have vision issues, they’re easy to find. Simply follow the outrageously loud and disgusting sounds of toilets flushing and hand dryers blowing. A blind person could find them with little problem.
Upon the return from my fake trip to the bathroom, I find the odd OCD woman standing in the coffee shop, staring blankly at the merchandise for sale. She looks overwhelmed. Frankly, the selection is not large enough to cause that type of reaction, but what are you gonna do?
I sit down and wait to board, keeping a watchful eye on the phony priest sitting several rows away. I swear he's reading a Bible with the Koran hidden inside.
The puddle jumper used to transport us to Minneapolis is not exceptional in any way. I'm a bit scared at first when I see the crew arrive in the Concourse, walk past the gate, then double back laughing when they realize they’ve missed their gate. I’m not 100% sure what flight they thought they were manning since our gate is the only one open in the area.
On board the plane, everything is fine. The Iraqi mock priest is really reading the Bible when I pass him in the aisle on the way to my seat. Not sure if he's just doing it for show, but I have to take him at face value (or maybe I just want to). I don’t want to imagine anything differently. Besides, if he has Jihadi-type intentions for this tiny plane, he's not going to make much of an impact.
The sole stewardess on the plan is either new or is such a veteran that she doesn’t care about her job anymore. When the time comes for the safety instructions to be read, she reads directly from a sheet of paper – completely deadpan. She even reads the part that says, “Welcome aboard Flight 4753 to Minneapolis. My name is Elizabeth.” Thank God she had that written down, right?
I sit next to a guy whose only source of entertainment for the 45 minute trip is a book by Arnold Palmer, giving tips on the game of golf and doing its best to apply those tips to life situations. I sneak a peak over his shoulder a couple of times. I don’t blame him for falling asleep four different times during the flight. Even the pictures in the book are boring.
Once we land in Minneapolis, I have the wonderful opportunity to find my next gate. I land at B5 and my next flight leaves from Gate F14. Honestly, why is it that wherever I go, my connecting flight leaves from the gate that is the furthest away from where I land? And nine times out of ten, it’s the gate at the farthest end of the airport terminal.
Inside the Minneapolis Airport, I make several fun observations. Outside one of the restaurants, a guy in a business suit, wearing his Borg implant (a Bluetooth earpiece) looks and sounds like a man with Turret’s. He randomly laughs, shouts something, or talks loudly as people pass by. It's funny to watch the people all say, “I’m sorry” or “Excuse me.” Like the automaton at the Delta counter, he just points to the device in his ear, as if that's a universal answer. I can tell you, old blue hairs have no clue what the thing in his ear is.
I also have the chance to follow an airport employee pushing a large Rubbermaid cart of ice around the terminal for a short time. Everything about him screams, “This is not my life!” There's no language barrier of any kind with him. Even the Japanese tourists know he's miserable. I keep waiting for some of them to pull out their cameras and take pictures, but alas, he's not that interesting.
When I sit down at Gate F14 to wait for boarding to begin, my weirdo magnet activates without any warning. The Asian kid sitting several rows away stands up, gathers his belongings, and comes to sit next to me. And I mean, right next to me, elbow to elbow, completely invading my personal bubble. Then, to top it all off, he pulls the acoustic guitar from the case on the floor and starts strumming. No lie! I don’t know if he thinks the place needs some livening up or he's hallucinating that he's in a NYC subway station. Either way, it's completely random and par for the course for any trip I take.
To top that, the older gentleman behind me continuously tells people that the seats next to him are being saved for the rest of his group. Later, after shooing away four different people, he admits to the old lady across from him that he's traveling alone and prefers it that way.
Here’s another random observation – why is it that if two blue hairs are in the same general vicinity, they are instantly drawn to each other? These two ladies are unbelievable chatty. They talk about everything, as if they're old friends meeting for the first time in years. That's not the case, however. En route to the plane, the one lady is strangely coy about her city and state of origin. Not sure what that is about, but when she won’t disclose the information, the other blue hair moves on and ignores her for the rest of the walk.
Now, I’m sitting on the plane, somewhere near 10,000 feet. There’s actually Wi-Fi on the plane, but it’s $34.95 to use. Astounding! I’ll have to post this part of my trip journal later. I hope to keep this up for the duration of the trip, but who knows. I’m easily distracted, don’t forget.
LMAO. OK, this is priceless! This large woman in the back of the plane is trying to move out of the way of a passenger when she falls backwards into an empty seat, knocking into a frail old man next to her. She yelps loudly and raises her ass from the seat almost immediately, yelling “Ouch! Pull it out! Pull it out!” The frail old man is in a complete state of shock. You can see it in his face. He doesn’t know how to react, but eventually realizes that the seat belt buckle is digging into the crack of her ass and frees her from the pain. Classic!
I’m going to sign off for now. I need to find some Herculean strength to bust open this complimentary bag of six pretzels I receive from the stewardess with the disheveled head of hair. I may need a nap after getting it open. It's sealed that tightly.
And you know what’s worse? As the plane heads for Seattle, I look at my watch and decide to set it for Pacific Time. Oh dear God, it’s 6:30 A.M. again. Time travel is possible after all. Hopefully, this 6:30 A.M. is better than the previous one. Oh no, some guy is going against the rules and using his cell phone on the plane. That bastard is going to be responsible for the plane going down. Ugh!
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