(With Apologies to Charles Dickens)

 

Wow! For all the traveling I’ve done over many years, I think of myself as a veteran, but coming home Thursday evening, 22 January, from the exuberant and deeply touching wedding celebration of niece Bridget and Victoria was one adventure after another.

My hosts, sister Cecilia and Rick, duly deliver me to the American Airlines departure area 4 hours early because I had discovered upon arrival two days earlier that it was difficult to navigate the airport. It was barely early enough.

If you’ve not been in the Miami International Airport in a while, prepare yourself: It has never been an easy airport to go through but now it is undergoing a massive MODERNIZATION project, which they advertise on huge signs that obscure most of the signs that you need to use to find out where you need to go. As they’ve “modernized” they’ve added “new” signs that conflict with the information on the “old” signs that they’ve left up such that you have no clue which is which, nor which to follow, so you wind up trying all of them, one after another. Directions are wanting but there are a zillion bars to stop at along the way!

At any rate, it takes an hour to find the right security line and then another hour to find the right departure gate for Knoxville, which they then change on the flight boards (none of which agree) four times. When I finally get to the right one, they change it again minutes before what is supposed to be our 10pm departure time—scarcely time for a restroom stop.

So, skipping along in time, we are all lined-up to board outside when we wait and wait and wait. At one point, the gate officer leaves and returns to address our long line. He holds up a purse and I see it and think: “Hmmm that looks a lot like my old Coach purse that I bought in New York City when I was 22 years old and have used ever since.” Then I realize that it IS my purse when he calls out my name. He comes over to me and gives me a stern little lecture on how lucky I am that the purse was found and with contents intact, no less. I thank him profusely, despite the lecture. I have no idea where I left it, likely that quick bathroom stop. Or maybe security?

Half an hour later, we are still standing there when they decide to change aircraft completely, sending us back into the gate waiting area. We are nearly all bosom-buddy friends by this time —even kinder, gentler ones because there is no alcohol to purchase in a bar nearby. A publisher waiting in line tells me I should really publish my stories and I tell him: “Oh, I do!”

Half an hour after that, we process back out to a distant new gate area and hastily board the plane which is, of course, stuffed to capacity, to a degree I could never have imagined in previous decades of travel. As I board, the gate officer asks me if I still have my purse—the long line of boarding passengers laughs in concert—and I thank him, yet again. The flight is perfectly fine and we arrive at Knoxville two hours late, at 2am.

I never leave my vehicle at the Knoxville Airport garage but I had done so because we are also in a vast construction frenzy at the airport and I didn’t want it to be stuck in ice or snow on the surface lots, given the dire weather prediction. Well, I remember perfectly well where I left it, even though there are no signs now in the garage—just a lot of construction barriers hither and yon, but after a half hour of walking in the sprawling 4-story garage I still cannot find my little blue truck. So I finally hail down the only security cart I catch sight of. Fortunately, I remember my license plate and it is a distinctive one for the Appalachian Trail. An hour later, with the help of two security carts on duty, traveling ‘round and ‘round the levels, we finally find it in a barricaded area that was left open and then closed-off in error by construction workers. It is 3am. After thanking the staff for their help, I am lucky that the expected ice storm has not yet arrived and I get home safe, but maybe not completely sane.

Dropping down onto my bed with all my clothes on, cat Coco thinks I should stay awake and listen to her complaints about being left for three days. When I pick up dog Gracie the next morning and bring her home from her diligent and supremely gracious caretakers, I tell her this long story of my travel home, and she falls sound asleep in her favorite bed while I nodoff repeatedly on the couch in front of the fire. I feel very fortunate to have family and friends to go to visit at my advanced age, but I am also grateful to be home. I suggest to both Gracie and Coco that we need to start-up a comedy club in our home so we could tell funny tales like this one, and others, but they do not want to hear about it.

I add the parking attendants and airline gate officer to my long list of acquaintances and hosts, and others, to amply thank in the coming week. I am grateful for all the help along the way.

While I write this, snow is falling softly outside our windows, at 30 degrees, which is good news because it means that the imminent ice storm, with temperatures predicted down to 7 degrees, will likely deposit ice on top of the snow—and thus not be nearly as perilous to walk or drive on. Caring well for a beloved dog in this kind of weather is not for the faint of heart.

Y’all come visit, with or without your own travel stories!

With much love to all, Theresa