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Saturday, February 02, 2008

I bragged about my good airport karma one too many times

And now I get to live in the Phoenix airport. Which is great. For breakfast I'll eat cinnabuns and for lunch quesadillas from the blue burrito grille and then, at night, I'll cozy up to some drunken stranger in the Fox bar. No smoking, no reading, except for Ann Coulter books. It will be just super fabulous.
Hello...God? It's me, Julia. Could you please get me the hell out of here? I swear if you find a way to magically transport me home I will believe in you from now on and say nice stuff about you to everyone!
Got back to hotel last night after hailing a cab from the Tenderloin ("I never stop in this neighborhood," the cab driver said. "But I saw the look on your face and thought I better.").
The look on my face, the look on my face.
Keep in mind, I'd already managed, just that afternoon, to:
1. get on the Bart going the wrong way
2. Get off the Bart at the wrong stop
3. Get back on the Bart at the wrong stop and then get off at the right stop and still have no idea where I was, so I walked up to a policeman, who, literally, seemed to be in the middle of a murder scene, and told him I was lost. Those lessons from childhood sure do stick with you. I should keep my mittens pinned to my sleeves too.
So, you know. I had gone to a great show (details forthcoming; ticket stub in other bag and I'm too lazy from eating french fries with my $5 food voucher to look for it. Five fucking dollars. That's, apparently, the going rate for sucking away 10 hours of my time. I am worth 3/900ths of a penny per hour.
As I was saying:
Made it back to hotel.
Realized I'd locked room key in room.
Got new room key.
Tried to print boarding passes and check in. Discovered flight had been cancelled and was instructed to call 1800 number and have tedious unsatisfying conversation with Us Airways evil robot lady working for worst airline ever.
Got rebooked on noonish flight. Bright side: Kind of late by the time this was accomplished.
Changed shuttle arrangements for airport downstairs with Roger, very elderly slightly impossible to understand and a little cranky Japanese valet person at about 1:30 am.
Pass out.
Wake up.
Take shuttle to airport.
Flight delayed 10 minutes. Then 20. Then 30. Law student with girlfriend who works for the Federal Reserve (The only time I've heard anyone mention the Federal Reserve besides Ron Paul) strikes up conversation. Conversation basically surrounds his belief that he is going to miss his connection. His connection is just a few minutes before mine.
Get on plane. Man and dad ask if I'll switch seats with one of them and sit on the aisle and let one of them sit in the emergency row because he's 6'4". I say OK. Flight attendant comes over and tells them they are on the wrong plane, but they can stay. But not in those seats.
Flight attendent announces that only people flying to Newark are going to make their planes. The rest of us have been booked on new flights. Can't decide which is worse: Hours in Phoenix airport or flying ontime to Newark.
Get harangued by crazy weird people who live in Phoenix airport trying to sell passerby frequent flyer miles on US Airways.
"i'm not interested," I tell them.
"May I ask why?" sad woman selling frequent flyer miles asks.
"Because your airline sucks."
Another man just came up to me and asked if he could buy me a drink at Taberna Del Tequila. I realize at some point as I build my life here in the airport I'll need friends and such, but I'm still holding out the hope that I may get out of here tonight.

ps: I know the tenses in this post are all crazy; I am tense-challenged sometimes, and it gets a lot worse when I start hitting hour eight without nicotine and when I am only running on grease and sugar. The guy who asked me to have a beer with him is just sitting by himself having a beer and it seems really sad. I must be hormonal because I am reaching that point where I feel sorry for everyone around me (and myself, but that goes without saying). Last night at the show, there were some older couples, (by which I mean couples in their 50s and 60s). And I was thinking it was pretty cool that they were out in a club watching innovative genre-busting music and that I hoped I would be adventurous in 20 or 30 years (which is unlikely, given that I would just as soon never leave my house again if I could get away with it). When, just then, one of the men slipped and fell and kind of body surfed, legs flailing, across the crowded floor (by accident). His wife went to help him up. He was fine, but he looked embarassed, as many 20-somethings stared at him kind of shocked. Honestly, it's amazing I didn't burst into tears. It just seemed kind of heartbreaking, although God knows I've fallen down, tripped, wiped out and banged into shit enough in my life and have yet to inspire anyone to cry (although many have laughed).
Definitely nicotine deprived. Starting to type with vicious abandon.