All because of Mark Twain!
March 25th, 2011The day started “normally” enough. Larkspur Landing is an Obama-ish “likeable enough” extended stay motel, with the usual universally bad “continental breakfast.” But it was raining in San Jose, so my options for having something more edible were nil. I had more than an hour to kill before leaving for the airport. So borrowing an umbrella from the hotel clerk, I walked to the book store across the street, which is going out of business, to pick up something for C. It is certain that I picked the wrong book, ”The Bible According to Mark Twain” because of the events that unfurled afterwards.
After living in the arid climates of Colordao and Utah for years, I might have forgotten that one gets wet if one walks in the rain. For when I returned, I had to change the dress.
Real events of the day began at the airport. After clearing the security, I still had over an hour to spend and grabbed some lunch. Having plenty of time, I just ambled to gate 18, for the flight to Salt Lake City. When I reached there, it looked right: showed the destination to SLC, the correct flight number and the departure time. The only odd thing was that they had almost completed boarding. Anyway, I joined the line and the Delta gate agent scanned my boarding pass and let me in.
I entered the plane, which was crowded, and started looking for my seat, 9C. I saw rows 1,2,3, 4 and then 10! What? I looked around to see if I missed something. No everything was fine. Puzzled, I called the stewardess. She took my boarding pass and said “So you are going to Salt Lake City?” I said “Yes.” “But we are going to Minneapolis!” My reaction was, “how did I end up in this plane?” She goes “We have already two other exactly the same case!”
The gate was already closed. I sprinted, knocking out (I hope!) other passengers and setting off alarms! Yes, the alarm did go off when I opened the closed gate from inside. But they knew what was happening and, I am glad to say, I was not immediately surrounded by a dozen pot-bellied TSA officials! Fortunately, the “real” gate to SLC flight was next door and I rushed in, only to find that they had not even started boarding! Well, even in this near panic mode, I did not fail to notice that the gate agent was very pretty and that she was charmed by the innocent tribulations of a handsome genius!
If something could go wrong, it will. So said Mr/Dr/ Murphy. Thanks to the incessant rain and strong winds (by Boulder/Cedar City standards, just breeze), we sat on the tarmac for 40 minutes before taking off. When we touched down in SLC, an hour and 15 minutes later, my connection to Cedar was just about taking off.
The Delta customer service agent checked with another supposedly existent agent, for I only saw him talking on a phone, and found that the delay was caused by weather and ATC. He said “If it is ATC,” after seeing my blank face at that non-facebook-non-twitter-non-talking-head acronym, he elaborated, “Air Traffic Control”, the “airlines don’t take up the responsibility and the best we can do is to check you into the next flight.” Well, the next flight was scheduled for next day, for Cedar gets the heavenly and honorable visits from Delta (the only airline that serves Cedar) only twice a day. The only other option was to book me into the 9:30PM flight to St. George, about 50 miles from Cedar. I agreed, hoping that Mr. Samuel Clemens’ masterpiece would be compensation enough to make C pick me up.
Now I had four hours to kill. Fittingly, I resumed reading Robert Heinlein’s “The Puppet Masters.” That is a classic. However, I could not continue that for long, thanks to a pair of (nearly) 44 years old eyes which are beginning to complain a little. So I switched to a “meshing issue” that we are facing in my project. I and my manager had a discussion on the topic and had formed an initial impression that it may be a difficult one to resolve. I was hoping that it would keep me occupied until the flight departed. Alas, that was not to be. In about half hour I realized that we were looking at it from a wrong angle. May be the Puppet Masters helped. Or may be, Mark Twain’s gods felt compassionate. Either way, I had the basic solution worked out in less than 45 minutes. Still had about two and half hours to spend. Back to the puppet masters.
Finally, we boarded the flight on time. I found my seat and sat down. It smelled like a toilet or a hog farm, literally. I thought may be someone threw up or had diarrhea. I turned to my fellow passenger, an old man, and said “something smells.” He said “It’s my cat. He has been travelling all day with me. I cleaned him up a couple of times, but he is sick.” My internal reaction may not have pleased any of those animal-rights freaks. So I was to put up with the stink for the rest of the flight. Oh, well.
But something happened during take-off. The cat meowed. He was afraid and sick and it was pitiful. I remembered Oscar, our cat that is not ours. Suffice to say that I did not feel disgusted any more.
For once, we arrived on time in St. George. C was supposed to be there, but she wasn’t. I called her cellphone. She said “I am at the airport. It is all dark here and just one car parked. I am in front of the passenger terminal. Where are you?” I tried to explain. After a few minutes of this conversation there arose a doubt. I asked a fellow passenger, who was waiting for his ride, “Is there another airport in this town?” “No. But this is the new one!”
It turns out that about two months ago, St. George had opened a new airport and all the services operated from the new facility. We both didn’t know that. From the fellow passenger, we got the directions to the new one and it took another 20 minutes before C found me.
It was 11:30PM. We reached home around 12:30PM, more than 12 hours after I started on a trip that should have, ideally, lasted only 5.
I am certain in my heart, and amply supported by my gut feelings, that it was all because I bought a blasphemous book. I should have known better, especially since I was flying into a state that has very close relationships with the One. Hindsight, as the saying goes, is 20/20.