(When reading this, remember this is long before cell phones, Apple Pay, and baggage weight restrictions)
I’m back from my first real vacation in years, 10 whole days. I had a wonderful time in Oregon visiting my best friend Becky and her husband Doug, and squashing my maternal urges with their two beautiful children: Christopher (3) and Sara (2). Lots of hanging out with kids, shopping, movies, the Oregon County Fair (quite a treat), and going to hear great live music. But the best story is about my arrival and departure from hell! I swear that everything you are about to read is true, and that none of the names have been changed to protect the innocent.
The plan was that I would fly into Portland and drive the 2 hours to Eugene in Becky and Doug’s car, conveniently left at the airport, on the top deck of the parking garage, by Doug’s mother who was there on a visit the week before me. Only one problem: it’s a stickshift and I haven’t driven a stickshift since I learned how to drive in 1987. So I did some mental boning up on the process and set off, confident that I could figure it out. I left July 2nd from Chicago, and of course, was late getting out of O’Hare. Flew into Seattle with about 15 minutes to make my connection. I made it, my luggage didn’t.
I should have realized then that the tone of the day was set. I was so mad because in all my frequent flying in the past years I have NEVER had a bag lost or left behind. Well, American Airlines said it would be in on the next flight out of Seattle and could I wait for an hour. Since I had no choice (all my clothes being in that suitcase), I said “Okay”, called Doug at work to let him know what had happened, and that I would be late, and went out to the parking lot to find the car. There it was, a welcome sight, right where it was supposed to be. Heaving a sigh of relief, I threw my other heavy carry-on bag into the back seat, and settled in to figure out standard gearshifting. The key was in the ashtray, and I put it in the ignition and turned it. Nothing. No way. Again. Nothing. Okay, maybe there’s something I don’t know about stickshift cars, and which one of these pedals is the stupid clutch, anyway? No go. The car is completely dead.
I took out my bag and went back to the airport, called Doug at work (near to tears with frustration) and discovered that, thinking everything was fine with me, he had gone to lunch. AAAAGH! I called Becky at home to let her know what had happened. Horrified, Becky is all sympathy, and working out my options I find I can either 1) wait several hours for her to get up to Portland, 2) rent a car, or 3) I could call and get a jump from a tow company. So I called a tow company and they said they’d be right over. By now, I’m thinking, “I am WAY too upset about this; something is not right.” Sure enough, PMS OVERLOAD. “That time of the month” was right on schedule. (Murphy’s Law gone berserk)
Right about then my bag showed up, so I trudged back to the parking lot loaded down with all my errant luggage, and sat on the car. When the tow truck arrived, the poor guy and I spent a bewildered five minutes staring under the hood of the Audi looking for a non-existant battery. Hauling the owner’s manual out of the glove compartment, we discovered (silly us!) that it was under the back seat. Jumpstart completed, car running, and $25 lighter, I got back into the car and proceeded to stomp on the brake and gas in the mistaken idea that I was using the clutch and the gas. Okay, here we go. I finally figure it out and spend about 15 minutes lurching around the empty upper deck of the airport parking lot, stalling and grinding and generally feeling foolish. I can do this. I think. Finally, feeling like I’ve wasted enough time, I start off for the exit.
Upon reaching the toll booth of the parking lot 4 floors below, I’m in for ANOTHER surprise. Doug’s parents had left the car in SHORT-TERM parking for $18 a day, instead of long-term at $6. The total bill was $90. I stared at the 16-year-old redheaded boy, who stared back at me, both of us at a total loss. “I only have $80,” I said lamely. “Oh,” he replied. More silence, as I stretch my wallet as if the missing $10 is hiding behind the library card. Finally, he gives up, and I hand over all my cash, and lurch the car on its way down the airport road toward the highway.
As I’m trying to read directions and follow signs to I-205, I glance at the gas gauge. Then I stare at it. It’s on EMPTY. This can’t be happening. Now it’s starting to get amusing. What next? I have no gas. I have no money. I’m precariously driving a car that I have to maneuver for 2 hours, and I’m ready to cry. Get a grip, Slaughter. I take the next exit into the middle of Portland, and drive several miles down the street (stalling at two lights) looking for a gas station, preferably one that takes credit cards.
A beautiful Sunoco sign beckons me in, and I swing in and beg for help: “Fill me up, where’s a cash machine, and how do I get back to the highway?” We had some trouble with the cash staton, because I asked for the CIRRUS machine, and he finally said, “OH! CYRUS!” Things were definitely picking up, because there was one right around the corner from the gas station, so while he filled the tank, I filled my wallet, and was then directed back to the highway easily.
Halfway to Eugene, I started to laugh and feel better The rest of my arrival was no problem, and I spent a great 10 days with my best friends who did everything they could to make it up to me. Unfortunately, Murphy was not finished with me yet.
****
Maybe it was because we had a plan. Then again, maybe it was because we neglected a rather important part of the plan, but my departure from Oregon was as much fun as my arrival. Ready?
The Oregon County Fair is a 3-day event; a giant Renaissance Fair, crossed with Mardi Gras, crossed with hippie bohemia, crossed with a nudist camp, with the addition of beautiful scenery, and excellent outdoor music and great food. It started Friday, and Becky and I went all day and had a great time, and were up late Friday night. Our plan was to go Saturday to the Fair with Doug and the kids, come home, pack, drive to Portland, grab a hotel room and I would catch my flight Sunday morning at 8:00 am. My flight plan itself was hellish to look forward to as it entailed flying out of Portland to DALLAS, and switching planes to Chicago, which didn’t get me home until 6:00 pm Sunday. A full day of traveling. Yuck-o-rama.
Saturday morning we went to the Fair with toddlers in tow, and had all kinds of fun, saw Joann Rand sing, had a half-hour professional massage, ate Dana’s Famous Cheesecake (well worth the extra half hour spent backtracking before we left). Becky and I didn’t manage to leave the Fair until 7 pm. We caught a bus back to Eugene, and packed ourselves and Sara the 2-year-old, who was coming with us for the night (Doug stayed at the Fair overnight with Christopher). By the time we actually got on the road out of Eugene on the start of our 2-hour trek, it was 9 pm. On the way to the Portland airport, we got lost twice, but finally, at about midnight, we pulled off the highway to the Flamingo Hotel, which is where Becky and Doug customarily stay when transferring guests in and out of Oregon.
Didn’t even think about calling for reservations. Never even crossed our minds that there might be a problem. Who stays in Portland, after all? 33,000 AMWAY CONVENTIONEERS, THAT’S WHO!! AAAAAGH! No hotel rooms for miles. No hotel rooms for hours. We thought: someone has to have a room. The baby was asleep in the car seat, Becky and I are already exhausted. We drive around for 2 hours looking for a place to stay. Even the fleabag dump motels are full. This is no longer Becky & Liz’s excellent adventure. This is Becky & Liz’s BOGUS JOURNEY. When we were on our 12th NO VACANCY, and saw 3 other cars in front of us that had just been turned down at the last place as well, we gave up. We couldn’t drive all the way back to Eugene, because we’d have only 2 hours to sleep, and then other 2-hour drive all the way back, and we were taking a big chance on oversleeping already, being so tired. So I persuaded Becky that the only course of action was to drop me off at the airport. By the time we got back to the airport it was close to 2 am. Becky didn’t want to leave me alone in the airport all night, and I didn’t want to let her drive 2 hours back to Eugene, tired, and with the baby. But we had no real alternative, so that’s what happened.
The airport was empty, except for a handful of people apparently in the same predicament as me. But all the lights were on, and the muzak was playing, and the timed announcements came over the loudspeakers every 15 minutes: “Portland Airport has designated smoking and non-smoking areas. Please observe the area signs.” I couldn’t sleep anyway, because I was worried about Becky. I started calling her house at 3:20 am. No answer. 3:30: no answer. 3:45: no answer. 4:00: Hurray! She made it! She’s fine, the baby’s fine, I can rest now. NOT. At least Portland Airport has double lounge seats so I could stretch out and cover my eyes with my jacket to block out the fluorescents.
At about 5 am, still pretty much wide awake, although my eyes were starting to burn, and I’m beginning to feel like the Scum Queen, the airport comes to life. The early morning flights are on their way in and out. 5:30 passes, hum de hum. My flight doesn’t even leave until 8:00, and how I’m supposed to make it until 6 pm in Chicago with no sleep doesn’t even bear thinking on. At 6 am I can’t just sit there anymore, and even though I still have an hour and a half before I need to check my bag, I get up and stand in line at the ticket counter.
St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers, must have finally taken pity on me. As I dragged my bags up to the check-in, the airline agent looked at my ticket, said, “Hold on just a minute,” and disappeared. I waiting, thinking, “Now what?” He came back, and said (in the voice of angels), “I can get you on a non-stop flight to Chicago that leaves in an hour. Do you want to get on it?”
I said, “I’ll have your baby if you get me on that flight!” You might think things have finally turned for the better, but we’re not home yet.
I got in to Chicago at 1 pm, managing to sleep for about an hour on the plane, though not very deeply. Before leaving Oregon and after arriving in Chicago, I tried to call my friend Sharon, who was supposed to be picking me up at 6 pm, to tell her that my flight plans had changed, and the time I was arriving. No answer. I left 2 messages. When I finally walked in the door of my apartment, my cats went berserk. They had no food in their bowls, and Sharon (whom I had talked to 3 days before, and who was keeping an eye on them) had obviously not been there. Oh great, I thought, something has happened to her, too. I left another, more panicked, message on her machine.
Then I noticed that my answering machine had messages. Thinking maybe it was Sharon, I pushed the button. This is what I heard: “This message is for Elizabeth Slaughter. This is Detective Magnine. Please call me about your car.”
WHAT ABOUT MY CAR??? SHARON has my car. Oh great, it’s been stolen, it’s been set on fire, Sharon AND my car have been stolen, it’s been run into the Chicago River…I tried to call the number he left, and of course, he had the day off and wouldn’t be in until Monday at 4 pm. “Okay,” I said to the detective who answered the phone, “Well, maybe you can tell me what he called about.”
“No, we don’t keep tabs on what the detectives are working on. Aren’t you the victim of a burglary?”
“I DON’T KNOW!”
Also, to greet me, in the midst of a huge accumulation of mail, was a subpeona for a court case involving police brutality which I witnessed 2 years ago, commanding me to appear in court for a deposiiton on July 8th…which was in the middle of my Oregon vacation. Just grand. All I want to do is go to sleep, is that too much to ask?!
Then, just when I had begun to despair, Sharon called. Everything is okay! She’s home, she was called away for the weekend, and forgot to come check on the cats, she’s terribly sorry, are they okay? And by the way, the car isn’t stolen, although it is missing 2 hubcaps, so maybe that’s what the detective called about. Whew. I feel much better. By this time, it’s about 3:30 pm on Sunday afternoon. I suddenly realize that if I go to bed now, I’ll probably be awake at 4:00 am, unable to get back to sleep, and I have to work on Monday morning. So I drag out the process of changing the kitty litter, unpacking all my luggage, opening my mail, returning my messages, before I finally decide I can lay down. I read a couple of catalogs, and by 4:30 pm, I’m ready to start trying to go to sleep in the middle of the afternoon.
At which point the Chicago Air & Water Show revs up, and the Blue Angels begin buzzing the city! They’re breaking the sound barrier on Cornelia Street! The cats are going berserk again. I’m having airport flashbacks! This will never end! AAAAUGH!!!
****
The end. …zzzzzz
Mood: nostalgic
Music: Carbon Leaf—Let Your Troubles Roll By