The premise was bad to begin with but the reality of my recent travel experience made me think that I must have been a crazed yak rustler with a taste for baby flesh in a past life.
Consider the following:
I’ve apparently developed an allergy to dogs en masse. My father has three.
White ones…and I wear a LOT of black.
AVIS lied to me, they do NOT have cars with navigational systems for use in southern Michigan.
I drove over 700 miles in under a week.
My flight there was delayed.
My flight back was cancelled…after my luggage was checked and we spent 1.5 hours on the plane.
The hotel we spent the night in lost power for two hours in the middle of “The Emperor’s New Groove,” which was the only thing keeping ToddlerNym’s sanity (therefore mine) intact.
My husband got really sick. ToddlerNym and I both caught it, though with less severity.
The idiot in front of me at the airport car lot payment booth ran his car into the little gate that hadn’t lifted yet.
Then he backed his car into mine.
Hard.
The only good thing about the trip was that I got to meet Persephone and her kids. Well, and that my Dad will be fine and I haven’t sullied my karma for ALL eternity.
Please make me feel better. Tell me your tales of traveller woe. I can’t be the only one who’s been through hell and back.
I was coming back from Kentucky to California a few Christmases ago, when major snowstorms pretty much wrecked the entire country’s flight schedule. I was supposed to fly into Cincinnati and then to California. We got as far as Cincinnati. They pulled us off the plane and sent us into a motel. They rerouted us to Atlanta, but my flight there didn’t leave until 7 p.m. the next day and checkout at the motel was at noon. I got to spend about six hours wandering the Cincinnati airport. Got to know every single bookstore in that place very well.
On the upside, I got a free upgrade to first class on the flight from Cincy to Atlanta and also on the one from Atlanta to California.
I remember the Tampa fest in March. Everything going down went well. Weather was nice. Not a sign of rain. Then I turned around to go home. Delayed in Tampa, an hour late to Orlando, but it started to look up. That flight was delayed by a storm. Get on plane, head stewardess is a beauty. The one by my seat looks like Halle Berry. One of the last passengers on - 5’10", about 130 lbs, long blonde hair, about a 15 out of 10. Sits down on the aisle, I’m in the window seat. We start to talk, delightful accent. She’s in from South Africa for some computer show. I swear she must be Charlize Theron’s sister, and she’s a geek! Gonna be plenty to see for 1100 miles!
Then Real Life intervenes. Storm kicks in big time. Sit on tarmac an hour. Back to terminal. Sitting around, look up, flight was cancelled. No announcement, tho. Walk to desk, try to get on next flight. Last standby, still left standing by. They're sending people to about 4 different area airports. That showy DVD rental place? Sorry, LGA returns isn't operational yet. No space on second flight. I get on third flight up. My mom was supposed to meet me. I called her to not go. She called Delta 2 hours later, they tell her I'm on a flight. She goes to airport. I was never on that flight. So when I finally get back, 4 1/2 hours late, she's mad at me for the flight, the fact they gave her 3 different gates, etc [sub] (never mind I said come get me once I GET to JFK...) [/sub]
TruePisces said this was a sign I was not supposed to leave Florida.
To be fair, when we bitched, Delta gave me a voucher for $75, which is about what the flight costs.
Once when I was traveling from Kansas to California on military leave for the Christmas season, my car’s engine caught on fire somewhere in rural Colorado (it was a Ford - surprise, surprise). I hitchhiked to the nearest town in a beat-up truck with an old farmhand named Herb, who was pleasant enough, but let me just say that somebody who loves him should really tell him to lay off the chili on long drives.
Anyway, he drops me off at some Cletus & Gomer gas station in a cornfield, where the proprietors inform me they’ll tow my truck for free, which I’m grateful for until they start in with that “you’ve got a pretty mouth on you, boy” business. One thing leads to another, and the next thing I know I’m fleeing through the greater midwest on foot to avoid manslaughter charges.
I finally hole up in a cave that is full of wonderful carbon monoxide gas, which puts me to sleep for a good week. When I awaken, I notice my left foot has frozen through, so I gnaw it off and keep it in my pants for emergency snack food.
Now I must learn to walk on my hands, which I get pretty good at after about 7oo miles or so, and right when I’m about to proposition a hooker in Salt Lake City, the aliens get me in their tractor beams and commence the anal probing. Man, I’ve never been so happy to see my family for the holidays as I was when the circus midgets finally dropped me off the following year.
Of course, I may have exaggerated a bit, but I’m only trying to cheer you up.
Sorry about your trip.
Oh gawd. I started to write about my worst trip, but my fingers just won’t do it.
It was only worse than yours because it was mine, but my grandfather was the same sort of buthead as your dad is. Still, you did the right thing, Sue Duhnym, treat yourself to an extra cookie sometime soon.