Sometimes I Hate Traveling

Who doesn't love to travel?

I do! I love to travel! Yes, even business travel…the opportunity to experience a new city, a new state, to be a part of something significant, all on the company's dime?

Priceless.

Yeah. Except…travel ain't what it used to be. Amirite? Sometimes it's a real pain, either from circumstance, bad service, or (admittedly), bad planning.

My worst travel nightmare - the scenario that turns my stomach when I imagine it - is coming down with a raging cold or the flu during travel.

I never get “just a sniffle.” I get flu-maggedon every time, so this is a real fear for me. I don't worry about planes crashing, major weather events, or losing my luggage. No, I fear being stuffed like a sardine on an ever shrinking plane surrounded by impatient travelers whilst fighting an endless stream of thick snot and hacking chest cough. The only thing worse than sitting on a plane next to someone with a bad cold is sitting on a plane next to a crying baby who has a bad cold and whose obnoxious sister is behind you kicking your seat.

So of course, on the day I had to travel to Phoenix for an important business presentation, a time when I needed to be sharp and at my very best...I woke up with a congested head and urgent need for Kleenex.

I should have known.

I am usually more self-aware than this. I know me.

The night before my trip, my husband informed me he thought he might have a sinus infection or cold because his left ear felt clogged with pressure. I should have done a Zicam nose enema right then and there. But I thought I would have at least a few days of incubation period. Who came up with that idea? It's a farce.

By morning I was a walking snot rag. But it was too late to back out. Plane ticket purchased, packed and already checked in, and this was an important presentation. So I sucked it up (not the snot, but rather my self-pity) and decided I was going to affect this outcome positively by sheer will. Maybe the reason I’ve gotten mack-trucked by every cold I’ve ever had ever is because my brain knows I will have to take time off. Maybe my mind makes myself be sicker because it will force my body to slow down.

Hey, I can conquer this! I am smarter than my brain!

So I swallowed my self-doubt along with some Claritin D and Sudafed (which was difficult because my throat kinda hurt) and stuffed my carry-on bag with Halls Mentho-Lyptus. Onward!

Pretty soon it was time to head to the airport. For one precious hour, things were going well. Traffic was light, I found a decent parking spot right away, the TSA Precheck security line was short and moved quickly, and I made my way to the gate with plenty of room to spare. I was only sneezing occasionally. My only woe at this point, other than a raw soft palate, was that maybe I got there a little TOO early. Consultant problems, right? But, there were always work emails and Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire to kill time, so I settled in to wait for my flight.

The plane, by the way, was at the gate, getting loaded with bags nearly ready two hours before flight time. Awesome. Plague aside, things will go well, I am sure of it.

BZZZZZ! Work and personal phones vibrate simultaneously. Notification from Delta: Your flight has been delayed 40 minutes.

Wait..what? The plane is here. How can this be?

Now I’m freaking out a bit…is this a mechanical issue? Oh, HELL no. I have no problems with flying…unless there’s a “mechanical issue.”

About 30 seconds later, a clearly frustrated Delta attendant came on speaker and gave us the bad news. “…Delta flight 1469 to Phoenix will be delayed 40 minutes. This is because the FAA controls the Phoenix airport and they have a significant back up. Just wanted you to know, it’s not us…it’s them. WE are ready to go.”

Touch of sarcasm here, but I appreciated it. Her inner Beulah was fighting to get out but she remained professional. I’m guessing this is not the first FAA-UBAR she has encountered.

I blew my nose, checked my watch, and decided that with 2 hours left before boarding and a 4-hour flight to Phoenix, I might as well fuel up now while I had the chance. The closest easy grub was a Popeye’s chicken halfway down the terminal, so I headed there. I had been wanting to try Popeye’s for a while and figured some batter-fried protein would be a slight step up from a $20 Snickers bar from the airport snack store.

As I settled into the Popeye’s booth to nosh my chicken fingers, I texted my husband to let him know about the delay. He had just tried Popeye’s himself for the first time about a week before, so I thought we could compare notes.

Me: 40 min delay, so grabbing grub, eating Popeye’s as we speak.

Sean: What did you get?

Me: Chicken fingers and Cajun fries.

(text silence) I could sense it through the phone.

Sean: Hmmm…

“Hmmm…” is never good.

Sean: Um, I had the Cajun Fries last week…keep your seatbelt unlocked, as you may need quick access to the ThunderBucket.

Yeah, he capitalized “ThunderBucket.” Thunder AND Bucket.

Great. I'm so glad I found this out when I was half-done with the meal! But in spite of the bad news, I was undaunted…because a) I was already feeling pretty shitty from the cold and there was no way THAT could get worse, and b) I poop, like, 157 times a day anyway, and I can go anywhere, any time, any bathroom. Sean’s digestive system is a little more…temperamental.

So I brushed off his warning (but just in case, I didn’t have any more of those Cajun fries).

Almost an hour late, we finally boarded the plane and I settled into my rear aisle seat. Flight attendant “Thomas” apologized for the delay and let us know we would all get a free cocktail for our trouble. Woo hoo. He assured us weary travelers that they would get us to our destination lickety split. The plane began taxiing down the runway, we were back on track, looking good. Heavy sigh of relief.

Aaaand...no. Plane is now stopped, engines powering down. Oh HELL no! This better not be a “mechanical issue!”

“Uh, folks, this is your co-pilot speaking, we are going to turn off the “Fasten Seatbelt” sign and feel free to move about the cabin. Our departure time has been moved back another 30 minutes and the captain has turned off the engines. We apologize for the delay.”

I shut my eyes and shook my head. This cannot be happening. I need more than a free cocktail for this. When will it end? What if we are one of those flights stuck out on the runway for, like, 8 hours and we all go feral and try to kill each other?

I tried not to imagine. The half hour passed in what felt like 2 and then finally, thankfully, I felt the plane lift off the ground and head into the turbulence of the Great Lakes.

Things looking brighter, as I made it 2 hours without a major coughing fit and only had to get up to use the bathroom once. I’ll use the term “bathroom” very loosely. It was more like a telephone booth with a sink and a commode.

Oh, sorry Millennials. A “telephone booth” is a small public shack where people would…oh, never mind. Google it.

I have no idea what has happened to airplanes these days, but this “bathroom” was barely large enough for my arse to fit in, I am not exaggerating. In fact, I’m not sure ANY woman could actually take care of herself properly in there unless she had supermodel-like thigh gap (including airbrushing), and even then only if her arms were equally skeleton-y. Holy drip-dry, WTF, Delta? Bad form. I didn’t think it was possible to make a plane bathroom any smaller, but you seem to have figured it out. Bravo. On behalf of the truffle-shufflers of the world…up yours.

I returned to my seat, having kinda-sorta managed to get myself through the event, which in spite of my husband’s warning was only a Number 1. Nanner nanner pooh pooh! But then, shortly after I buckled my seatbelt, it began. And by “it” I mean waves of painful gas ballooning through my intestines. I cannot even adequately describe the agony as giant air bubbles forced their way through my gut like a snake swallowing a hippo. By some divine intervention, there was no smell and the gas did not manifest itself into solid or liquid form. Yet. But the pain was nearly unbearable for the rest of the flight.

Note to yourself: Do NOT get the Cajun Fries at Popeye’s.

We finally landed almost an hour and a half late, and then the fun began. 'Cause, we weren't having enough happy time yet!

Apparently part of the flight experience for your average traveler is also forgetting how to maneuver your ginormous "carry-on" bag out of the overhead bin and smoothly exit the plane. Yes, I judge these poor saps who make me wait entering the plane and now make me wait once again while they struggle with simple mechanisms.

But I only judge them until I get down to the baggage claim, where I spend 5 minutes trying to find the right conveyor (because my flight number was not displayed on the teleprompter). Which pales in comparison to the additional 15 minutes I waited for my actual car-sized suitcase to appear from the magic conveyor hole. Maybe the carry-on people are onto something after all. I just wish they wouldn’t bring the entire contents of their household with them.

Boat-with-wheels in hand, I quickly found a taxi to transport me to my hotel on the other side of town for only a small fortune. At last. You know the feeling I’m talking about…you finally get to your destination after a long, grueling trip, and all you can think of is getting into your private room with the perfectly-made bed, throwing your clothes into a heap in the corner, adjusting the thermostat, and sliding your weary ass under the blankets and into oblivion.

I was thinking about that too, as I stepped through the glass doors into the Hilton lobby. It was past 10 PM, which was 1 AM my time back in Michigan, and I wanted desperately to collapse into those white sheets. I was also thinking about my very own private >18-inches-wide bathroom, thinking about it a great deal because the unspeakable gut vapors had finally started materializing into a very loud intestinal gurgle…and a juuuuust-starting-to-get-uncomfortable heat in the nether-region.

Let’s make this check-in go nice and fast, shall we?

The young woman at the desk – let’s call her “Ashley” – checked me in quickly and then pulled out a map of the hotel complex (it was a full-on resort, with a north and south building plus adjacent golf course, shops, water park, and probably its own zip code). She drew a few lines on the outline of the north building, the one we were in, and then pointed to the right of the lobby. “Just take the elevator to the 4th floor, go right, then left around the corner down the walkway to Room 2456, you can’t miss it.”

I thanked Ashley and headed for the elevator. Cajun Fries are calling, just hold on my friend…we are almost there.

The door opened on the 4th floor and I could see a sign straight ahead:

<<--2465-2466 2401-2402-->>

I let out an audible groan. Neither of these ranges contained my room number. But maybe there’s another sign, so I go right, exactly as Ashley had directed me, then left around the corner. There is no walkway, there is only a laundry room and a stairway to another level. Maybe I went the wrong way, so I turned back and tried going left off the elevator. Again, no walkway. It just stopped. I must be crazy, or she wrote down the wrong room number, or it’s the head congestion. I fully admit that in my state, I could have heard her directions incorrectly. One ear was still entirely plugged from our plane descent, so it wasn’t a stretch.

Or, could I have missed another elevator? I did think it odd that a building this size only had only one, so I went back down to the lobby level and took a look around. No other elevator. I peeked around to the lobby. Ashley was checking someone in and there was another person behind them. Shit. Literally and figuratively. I looked back at my map. Maybe I missed something. So I again got back into the elevator and headed to the 4th floor. I distinctly remember she said “take the elevator to the 4th floor.”

Door opens, I step out, go right and keep going right (which is what my husband taught me when playing video games…always keep to the right). Every angle, every turn, every annex…nothing.

There are four rooms on this floor in this area, and none of them are mine. I feel like Anne Francis in that episode of Twilight Zone where she takes the elevator to the deserted 9th floor of the department store and later finds out she is a mannequin. Am I a mannequin? The prairie dog is about to come out of his hole, so I am pretty sure I’m human, and I better figure this out fast.

Thankfully Ashley was alone at the counter when I arrive back at the lobby. She looked smug but startled at the crazy, snot-nosed woman careening toward her with obviously squeezed buttocks and a maniacal look in her eye.

She was right to be scared. I am for real, bitch!

I fake smiled. “SO sorry to bother you, but are you SURE this is the right room number?” I used my best “trying not to be sarcastic” voice. Which is very hard for me because I invented sarcasm. “There does not appear to be a room 2456 on the 4th floor.”

Ashley looked at me with disdain, like I was an irrational, middle-aged version of her own mother (which I probably was). She took the map I was waving around in my hand. The patronizing voice came out. “You just go off the elevator, turn right, then left around the corner, it’s right down there.”

I shake my head. “No, it is not right down there. There is no ‘down there.’ That’s what I’m saying.” I desperately explain the signs. That I went both ways. That there was no walkway, no room 2456, only a lonely woman in an apron folding clothes over a dryer.

“Noooo….” (very sing-songy, like she's talking to a toddler). “You have to go through the glass doors first…THEN go right, then around the corner.”

My first thought is “YOU DIDN’T MENTION ‘THROUGH THE GLASS DOORS,’ YOU MORON!” and my second thought is “THERE ARE NO GLASS DOORS, YOU MORON!”

I was ready to lose it, both from my foul mouth and my soon-to-be foul other end, as I struggle to stay calm and say as politely as one can when one is tired, sick, and desperately holding in mud butt, “There are no glass doors on the 4th floor. There is just a railing and a roof.”

Ashley was shaking her head condescendingly and I was about to commit a felony when her counterpart emerged from the door behind the front desk. “You have to go across the pool area and take that elevator. You can’t get to your room from this side, there isn’t any access from the 4th floor.”

BOOM!!! I AM VINDICATED.

Desk clerk with brain pointed me through the lobby doors, across the pool courtyard, and to a clock tower-like building on the far side, which contained the elevator I needed. I thanked him, headed out leaving Ashley in my dust…and made my way to the lift. It was closing in on 11 PM when I finally took advantage of my private throne and then sank into the too-soft mattress to await a new day.

This, my friends, is why I sometimes hate traveling.