Road Trip Update: Homestretch

Vegas to Los Angeles, and LA to San Francisco was really fun. We decided to skip the entirety of Route 1 up the coast, for the sake of time, but it was worth it at Santa Cruz... some truly breathtaking coastal views.

Anyway, I'm not going to bother with details about the last days in LA and SF- Some things are better left unsaid. Except, that it was so great seeing Craig, and not just because I beat him at bowling (cough, ahem, first game).

Kate and I got a little crazy watching game three of the World Series two nights later. I wake up somewhere in San Francisco, ridculously hungover, aftermath of some party, safe, but without Kate. Not only do I not know where I am, but I don't know how to get to the airport. Iknow there are busses, so I ask a busdriver where to go. I left at 7 a.m. to catch a flight I thought left at 10 a.m. I look at my confirmation email again at the subway and nope, not leaving until noon. Good thing I woke up so early.

Upon arrival at the airport, I follow signs to United. I go to the self-check in kiosk... And my name does not pop up. I pull out the confirmation email again, to check the flight number, and realize I'm actually flying Delta. There are a few important things you need to know when you're flying, where you're flying out of, what time and what airline. I'd already gotten two out of three wrong, thank goodness San Francisco only has one airport. I attempted to help the hangover with a minosa/steak/eggs breakfast, to no avail.

I'm excited to be on the aisle and not sandwiched in the middle. But we left the Tarmac an hour late due to some fueling issue. Now, I've missed flights before, lost luggage, had to run for a gate and I'm still here, in one piece. It was out of my control- so I chose not to worry about it until I had to. I watched the new Twilight movie and I might be on Team Jacob. I also watched this movie called the A-Team, with Bradley Cooper. Not a bad lineup for a three and a half hour flight.

The delay left me only twenty minutes until the next plane left. I arrived at Gate E and decided to run for it- all the way to Gate B. That's a lot of ground to cover, and if I wasn't such a state of panic, I probably would have realized there's a shuttle. (I implore you, if you're on an escolater or one of those moving sidewalk things, step aside. There's probably someone in a hurry, especially in someplace like Atlanta, the biggest fucking airport ever.) Before my mom took her first plane ride last year, her worst fear of flying wasn't claustrophobia, hijackers or crashing, but that in the same vein as Home Alone, she'd have to haul ass through an airport to make her flight.

I ran. I ran with my giant Portmanteau Nana bag. I ran until I couldn't breathe. My teeth hurt and my heels hurt and I ran. I remember from a science class in middle school that if your body doesn't get enough oxygen, some sort of acid takes over or something. That was happening. Over these moments, I was thinking to myself a few eloquent, poetic things, like, Get the fuck outta my way, I should be in better shape, This never would've happened on JetBlue,  People who run for fun are insane goddamn masocists, This is probably the worst possible time to be hungover. I almost vomited on the man at the gate and can barely get out between gasps for air- Did it leave? The plane was scheduled to depart at 8:40 and I arrived at 8:37. No joke. I missed it.

There's nothing I can do except wait until I get to the bathroom to start sobbing uncontrollably. I pull myself together as some woman said,"Honey, I don't know what's wrong, but I'm sure it'll be okay." I said, "I missed my plane." It was the last plane to Maine for the night.

I go to the help desk. Other people from my San Francisco flight are there, and I'm irritated to be directed to a phone and not a person. I find another woman trying to get to Maine, and I try to listen in to see what they offer her. I'm told to get back to the front of the line.

In a moment of desparation, I try to fly to Boston. The woman at the help desk is definitely neither listening nor helpful. She tells me I'm going to need to hurry to make the Boston flight, and I nearly tell her to go fuck herself. I get to the gate and realize that there isn't going to be a bus leaving Boston for Portland at midnight. So I go to the help desk.

Yolande is really helpful, and gives me food and hotel vouchers. I'm staying at the Comfort Inn, there's a shuttle, and I'll have a bed, shower and be back in time to take my Marine Biology Lab quiz at 12. I take my food voucher to the Chili's, because who knows if there's a bar  food at the Comfort Inn. I meet a guy from Tampa, who looks like he's got some great stories, but I'm too tired, hungover, dehydrated, hungry and under-caffinated to care. I have half a turkey club, two margaritas, and make my way to the shuttle.

At 11 p.m. I'm in my hotel room. It's clean and inoffensive. I'd been in transit since 7 a.m. and I find on my ticket itenernary that Yolande is sending me to the wrong Portland. I call Delta. Apparently it's right Portland on my ticket, but not my itenerary. I get barely four hours of sleep, because I need to get on a shuttle at 4:30. In the morning.


My flights from both Atlanta to Laguardia and Laguardia to Portland are delayed,and I just about lost it- just about everything that could've gone wrong did. Luckily I make both flights, arrive in town at 12, and despite missing my biology quiz, I was happy to be home.