On The Way Back

The working title was "There and Back Again: A Very Un-Tolkien Adventure," but I've just about had it with subtitles. Especially ones like that.

If you haven't gathered from "International Travelloging Mishaps and Misfortunes," I am not well-versed in travel. Not too much experience under the belt, no real mistakes to learn from, with the exception of the earlier tale. So I find myself on the verge of another big move. All my possessions, avec moi, need to be at an airport at a certain time, then propelled across the sky. I am nervous as all hell but not showing any signs of it. My tickets were bought far in advance, I've been in tight email correspondence with the flight booking service I used (Expedia.com) and fully packed. I had my flight information all printed out this time, things were swell. My flight was at 5:35, it was 2:30, all the time in the world to catch the 51 into Oakland and BART down to SFO. I'm chilling for the last time with my roommate hereby refered to as Pabst (his initials were PBR, mine are THC, this is hilarious kinda-coincidence).

I hop online to kill some time, double-check on things, and fancy this, a new email from Expedia. A change in my flight information. This is about the fifth change in flight information in a five month period. It happened early last night. Nothing huge, the same connecting flights, same cities, same airlines. Just the time. And no real alarm here, they just moved it two hours ahead. To 3:30. And..

Oh my God I have One Hour.

One Suitcase, One Huge Wheeled Bag, My Yadeng Backpack, and my brother's briefcase. And a ukulele.

"Holy Shit I have One Hour!" I shout. "To SFO!"

Through public transportation. I dash for the Bus Schedule on the wall, there's one soon. Pabst and I grab my luggage and bolt out of the apartment. We hustle at a tortoise pace. It becomes increasingly real to me that riding the bus with all this shit just might not fly as fast as I'd planned. Pabst has already picked up on this.

"I'll call a cab. It shouldn't be too expensive to the airport, maybe 30 bucks plus bridge tolls."

He tries a San Fran company but they say they don't go to Alameda. We both try Alameda companies that end up not going to South San Francisco. My old friend Panic starts to creep around the corners of my mind. So pacing helps. So does the ukulele. Pabst resorts to 511, and they give him a company. Luckily the wait isn't long, but the clock is counting down.

A black Lincoln Town Car pulls up, and a potentially Indian man in a turban steps out and greets me.

"I need to be at SFO in less than an hour." I rudely blurt.

He says he can do it, and I believe him.

His towncar is nice, spacious, leather and comfortable. He is nice, spacious, leather and comfortable. I relax moderately. Have no fear, Travis, I tell myself. This is how Importand People get to the airport. Fancy towncars. And they make it there on time. Oh, hey, check it out. Crystal Spring Water in little bottles. "Are these for me?" Yes. They are. Okay. Awesome. I am parched.

We talk about flights, and missing them, and rushing, and how he was up all night driving and his handler woke him up after four hours of napping, I apologized but he said don't worry the money's good. I said he's saving my life. He liked that. So he got me there, on time, and I couldn't thank him enough. He wanted 78 dollars of thanks. I handed him $100 with gratitude.

I didn't want to spend that much. I certainly didn't have to. I thought it was a karma investment, but I guess I was precognitively preparing myself for the flight desk. Both my checked bags were over 50 pounds. The dudes at the desk felt my pain, it was a 50 dollar charge for each overweight bag. Ben Franklin and I are bro's, but he doesn't always pull doubles for me. For the first time in my life, I desperately needed to lose weight.

I put on three sweatshirts, another jacket, and then Jamman's winter coat he let me have. A pair of sneakers, two pairs of ripped jeans and heavy papers. Documents, or something. One of the staff played ukulele, I let him strum away while I rearranged contents to drop at least one bag below 50. (These are the details that keep me going, give my life flavor, but seriously this story is effing long so I'm rushing through, bear with me folks.)

A dude hands me my tickets and says here, go on. I don't know if he's charged me any fees for my two overweight bags. I had to slide my card for the machine to pull up my information. Did he charge me? Or was this some sort of altruistic pity given it was five days before Christmas? Or maybe ah fuck I don't have time to question these things! Clad in too many jackets and a wintercoat, holding a briefcase, my ukulele and a ticket, I breezed through security. Wasn't no thang. Besides me looking ridiculous.

This is where it gets interesting. I'm dashing to my gate, well knowing I'm on time but still uncomfortable taking this at a walking pace. I go straight up to the desk and hand her my boarding pass, she gives me an odd look, as if to say, we're not boarding now.

"I just want to make sure everything is OK," I profess.

She is an old woman with a kind face. "What is that you've got there?" It's a ukulele.
"Could you play a song for us?" Hah. Can I play a song for you? Yes. Yes, I can. I instantly do so.

"My bags are packed, I'm ready to go. I'm standing here outside your door. I hate to wake you up to say goodbye. But the dawn is breaking, it's early morn. The taxi's waiting, he's blowing his horn. Already I'm so lonesome I could cry..."

The terminal activity stops. Her face breaks into the smallest smile, that isn't for me, it's for her. I unfortunately break this beautiful moment between strangers by exclaiming "Free upgrade?"
She laughs, nods, gestures me closer and says she'll see what she can do. And tells me to keep playing. Maybe something Christmas-y. The best I've got for that is Avril Lavigne's "Complicated." I sit on my briefcase and gently play melodies without singing as the rest of the passengers gather. Soon lines are formed, and on a nice overhead display, I recognize my name on a list. And yes. It's for Business Class.

All prior stress and anxiety towards traveling home have been vanquished. I just serenaded my way further in life. I board and sit, the only person sitting next to me remarks "Oh, I'm by you," when she sees my instrument. I spend the next fifteen minutes investigating and utilizing every available luxury accessible in Business Class. As a typical "Economy" man, I will take not one thing for granted. And P.S. Business is where it's at. If you've ever got the extra cash, treat yourself. No one has a bad time in Business Class.

I didn't. I watched Little Miss Sunshine for the first time, as well as several episodes of House, How I Met Your Mother, and Heroes. I watched other movies too, but they were dwarfed in comparison to how deeply Little Miss Sunshine got me. I ate a five course meal, all delicious, accompanied with multiple glasses of wine, recommended to me by the young lady sitting next to me, whom I shared delightful conversation with. She was a Med student visiting hospitals to establish residencies at in the Bay Area returning home to New York to see her husband, a lawyer. I gave her the run-down of my moving home to be with the woman I love, focus on my art, and jump-start my life. Probably the most engaging and interesting conversation between fellow passengers. All I've heard are just horror stories. But not here. Not every airplane experience has to just turn dastardly, does it?

Enter John Fitzgerald Kennedy International Jetport.

So boom. Touch down. I'm in New York after the long haul. It is important to note it is now approximately 11:30 pm EST. My connecting flight is at 6:00 am. Disoriented, lagged and decompressed, I carry my briefcase, backpack and uke through the seemingly deserted airport. A few guards point me in the right direction, but inform me if I leave the terminal I can't get back in. It takes me a long while to realize this is necessary. So I exit. Turns out, all the terminals are closing for routine maintenance and cleaning, and won't be open again until 4:00 am. I decide to make my way to the Ticketing area of my next flight just to make sure I get the boarding pass nice and early. A surprisingly long line greets me, entirely foreigners. They are passing up and down the line a petition against American Airlines, for what reason I'm not sure. It's here when it hits me my next flight is with United, and not AA, so I get out of there.

I have absolutely no idea what to do with all the terminals closed. It's snowing outside. The AirTrain system is confusing for everyone else there but I get it, I help some foreigners out. A man tells me Terminal Four is open, it has all the shops and businesses and et cetera. Great. On my way, I notice JFK has a serious issue with birds. Little ones, just flying too and fro, all around through every hall. Maybe you've been there, maybe you've seen them. If you haven't, wait until midnight and when the halls are cleared, and it's just like a metropolis of bird activity going on. Who's in charge of tending to this problem? What must be done? I have time for these thoughts.

Actually, I have a lot of time. I have six hours till my next flight. And in Terminal Four, I find just what I was looking for. The traditionally middle of the night shanty-town of laid-over travellers, cuddled around rollerbags, occupying every semi-comfortable surface area wide enough for most of their body/luggage. I'm digging this, and ready to join them, but as you can guess, every available sleepable space is being camped upon. Booth-seats, chairs pushed together, tabletops, decorative flowerpots, corners near vents. It's incredible how regular people can instantly acquire homelessmen-like tendencies and just sack out anywhere that will barely accomodate them. Me, I just want an outlet. And a beer.

The only open store is not serving past midnight and I'm ten minutes late. Whattabitch. But, hey, whatever. I call my girlfriend, she's still up, and we chat and laugh about how crazy-nervous I was about not making it to the East Coast. I've already missed one major important flight in my life, to miss another would just be, well, embarassing. It gets late and she goes to bed. I stay up for a little longer writing a tune on my uke before passing out on cold linoleum. I've slept in worse places.

My alarm wakes me up, a solid hour and a half before my flight. Gathering myself and heading out, it hits me, if I've switched airlines, does this mean I have to re-check my luggage? Oh shit. My luggage has been down there for God knows how long and no one picked it up. Do I have to re-check it? Better check.

Down at Baggage Claim, I find one suitcase hanging out in an island of misplaced belongings, in a serious sea of clumped groupings of stuff. My gigantic rollerthinger is nowhere to be found. A strange lady with really strange teeth explains it could be anywhere, in any island, at any time. What the hell kind of organization is this? But whatever, I needs to get this business taken care of. Feverishly searching provides no fruit. She tells me to knock on this door I don't want to knock on, inside is just a tiny room filled front to back with more misplaced bags and a visibly perturbed man having to deal with it all. I show him the tag on my suitcase and he says if my rollerbag has the same tag, it will still get to Portland. I ask him if I should re-check my suitcase, he's says sure why not. Cool. One hour left.

I get to United's Ticketing area and HOLY SHIT THERE'S A LINE. Ofcourse, it's now four days before Christmas at 6:00 am, people are going places. Lots of people. The line goes down and down and down, then turns, wraps around a corner, then around the perimeter of this antechamber and then stops right before the door to the outside winter air. Sorrow-filled, I join this line. And man. It really doesn't move. I always thought airlines recommending arriving more than an hour before your flight was recockulous but I've never been to JFK. Man. The inevitable truth slowly dawns on me that if I remained in this line, I would certainly miss my flight. So I see an opening. The lines for Business and First Class are monumentally shorter. I could just shell out an extra $70-#$80, make my flight, switch over one last time in Washington DC and then be home free for the holidays.

This is where it all gets messy. At the self-check-in machine, it doesn't read my passport immediately. I try again, no such luck. It takes a while for a person to get over here, and I'm just melting the clock on the wall with my Heat Ray Vision. I have half an hour. So I think. He says the machine is broken, I try another. Presto, works. He says my flight has been boarded, I say Wonderful, Let Me Get ON It, but there's an issue.. He leaves. I don't know where. The only other person who can help comes over, short woman, hispanic accent, done up hair. She rolls her eyes and does that stupid Airport grimace thing with her teeth. She says she'll call and see. I'm sweating blood.

She gets back to me: all the seats have been filled, already boarded, there's no room. I protest. I paid for a ticket months ago, I'm here, here's the ticket, let me on. She doesn't like my tone. I don't like her tone, OR her hair. She tells me I should have been here 45 minutes before boarding. I tell her I WAS here 45 minutes before boarding in the other line longer than her BANGS.

Except I don't say that. I say something else. Well, guess I can't get in trouble for it here, I say: "the other GOD DAMNED LINE." Now. It's important to mention here that there is a strict policy at JFK, and maybe all international jetports, against cursing in the Ticketing line. Especially the Lord's name. She motions to a man to come and tell me this in a quiet calm manner. I argue with her a tiny bit more, saying things like I still had time to board, yadda yadda yadda, but I realize I'm fighting a losing battle, and stammer off without shouting "BULLSHIT," "MOTHERFUCKER," or anything like that.

So head held low and defeated, I stroll back beside the enormous line for Economy, arms limply holding on to my suitcase and briefcase and ukulele. I notice some sideways eyes from airport employees. Gossip travels fast. It's the holiday season. Who knows what this unkempt depressed scoundrel could do next? I politely ask for the Help desk. After a long wait, they Help me. A stand-by ticket for Dulles International Airport (Washington DC) at noon, with another stand-by there for Portland, ME. My previous landing time in Portland at 2:00 pm has now drastically shifted to 8:00 pm. I have to make some phonecalls. Also, they take my suitcase. Goodbye, down the conveyor. It dawns on me I left my passport back where I made the scene, so I retrieve it under careful watch of the offended employees.

So now I've got another six hours to kill in JFK. I mosey my way to the terminal for my connecting flight, and thank heavens they're done cleaning it. I put my stuff down near the gate and kindly ask a magazine stand lady to keep an eye on it, which she gratefully does. I wander and wander until A-Ha! Just what I need! The instant cure to my missed-flight-travel-blues: The airport bar.

It's only other occupants are stuffing away some breakfast and I plop myself down right at the counter. A tall dark and handsome bartender asks if he can get me anything. I ask what the cheapest beer is. He says Budweiser, at $9.50. It takes all the self-control I can muster at this point to not shout obscenities at him, the other patrons, and God Himself. Nine Fifty! Plus Tip! For a glass of BUD?!?! He then leans in close and tells me they are not allowed to serve alcohol before 7:00 am. Right. I switch seats away from this evil, evil man to regather myself. I make some phone calls to the ladyfriend, mother and father, explaining the missed flight. My second missed flight in my life. This news is not met with well reception.

Bartender slowly walks over to me and leans in real close, under his breath mutters that once his fellow employee leaves, he can hook me up with the Budweiser, just in a paper Coca-Cola cup. With eyes like daggers I kindly thank him for the offer and his generosity, but I must decline. Ten dollars is too much for a beer. Any beer. Out of a paper cup.

On a highlight note, during my gallavanting about the terminal, I see what appears to be Chris Kattan of Saturday Night Live blow past me with a suitcase and navy blue down jacket. Not believing my eyes, I slowly follow him to the gate right beside mine, and upon further inspection, yes, it is Chris Kattan. No doubt in my mind. He looked quite frumpled, tired and upset, so I restrained myself and let the poor aging celebrity be.

My girlfriend calls and informs me a storm is going to blow through Portland tonight, she is worried my flight will get delayed or worse yet cancelled. I tell her that's only if I can get out of this Hellish Pit of Hellshit of an airport in the first place, so let's both pray some shmuck doesn't catch his flight in time, so I can win the stand-by seats. She's still concerned and calls me back later, this time having done Research, and tells me it'd probably be faster and maybe even cheaper to take a bus. I talk to a Gate lady, and she tells me that would require leaving the Terminal, forfeiting my stand-by status, and fucking me over bad. And there's no bus directly out of the airport. A map tells me that JFK is actually far from New York, NY, but in Queens, NY, below South Jamaica. I call my mother, who's still laughing at my second flight missed, and seems totally indifferent how long I have to sit in JFK.

I take girlfriend's advice, getting home to her is Priority Uno, and go out on the largest limb I believe I've ever taken while travelling. I take the AirTrain out of JFK to Jamaica Station, where I get to board the Metro Subway. I have the exact seven dollars for a one way one day pass. Under carefully amalgamated instructions, I ride the Subway into out of Queens, into New York (Manhattan), across the island, to Port Authority. It's a long ride I have trouble keeping attentive for. But I make it to Port Authority, where there is a Greyhound bus station located. Hip Hip Hurray.
(Odd note: It cost $36 dollars to go to Boston, when I asked how much to go to Portland, the lady said $35. I've checked the website a few times since, and I have no idea why it cost me a dollar less but I bought the ticket anyway.)

So here I am in the Big Apple, it's stopped snowing and turned to torrential cold rain, with two hours of my life to live before I ride the bus. I make the appropriate phone calls to relieved loved ones. And decide to check out the streets. Not much going on outside. Lots of New Yorkers moving to and fro. Across the road was a Burger King that offered Internet access. Weirdest thing, seeing a Burger King set up like an Internet Cafe with the computers all against the wall and the cash machines to buy minutes. They were not bad prices either. I nabbed 30 minutes and hit up Facebook and got to F-Chat with my main doggs, Dirty JC and Justice Train. I also Google-Mapped my current location and discovered I was merely three blocks from Times Square.

My only two trips to New York City prior did not include seeing this iconic locale, and here I was sitting right down the street from it, I had to check it out. So I trudged through the slush and rain and saw the bright billboards and businesses along the Square. Given the weather, nobody was milling about in the middle of the Square as I'd so often see on TV, so I shamelessly whipped out my ukulele from it's shelter in my winter coat. And I can now forevermore proudly say I played my ukulele standing in Times Square under the pouring rain.

Then I hustled back to Port Authority to catch my bus. The Greyhound bus was packed full but I've never been one to complain about close-quarters public transportation, I could man this one out. The driver is named Gonzales, no joke, so I laughed to myself and prayed the trip would be Speedy. We start rolling, I'm texting my friends saying I'll be home for Christmas and so on, and everything is starting to look up for once on this wild trip.

Then the bus catches on fire.

Smoke starts to fill the cabin, just the smell at first. Now say what you will about the human spirit, that we are all truly kind and honest people, good natured and so on, but the chaos that erupted on that bus brought our whole species great shame. Just from the hints of smelling smoke. People were yelling, screaming, at the driver, already out of their seats pulling their stuff down from overhead compartments. Dashing down the aisles with no regard for seating order, or the elderly. I fully believe I was the only level-headed passenger who didn't panic, threaten the driver or threaten the other passengers, and I was sitting in the way back, by the lavatory (proper positioning is everything).

The driver pulls over and everyone shouts and moans until they get off. We all gather under this scaffolding while the driver inspects the now-hot-boxed bus front to back and can't determine where the smoke is coming from, so he calls Home Base and orders us up another one. Poor Gonzales answers everyones questions and criticisms. Some people duck inside nearby buildings to get warm, I eventually do this too. By the time the new bus arrives, I'm first out the door, first to the sidewalk, determined to get my old seat back. Everyone gathers around as it hisses to a stop, and I shout out "Same Seats!" to get a laugh. Nobody laughs.

We drive through part of Central Park as Gonzales introduces the new driver, Thomas. Once we hit the highway and make for Massachusetts it dawns on me Thomas must be from Massachusetts. I sleep or feign sleeping the whole ride up, but when I did open my eyes I would notice the rain shift back to snow, and turn into a dreadful blizzard. Or as how my people would term it "a wicked nor'easter." Thomas the Driver must clearly see this, but still tailgates people doing forty on the unplowed highway. I'm scared for us and scared for them, and think Thomas is a dick. A real Masshole. I sleep.

I wake up! The bus is stopping. People are outside waiting for it. A few stand to get off and I'm jumping with joy. We're at Logan! Finally! A safe reliable location to make the last leg home from! I scurry off the bus, and the second my feet are down on Massachusetts soil, WHAM I fall flat on my ass, but I'm so elated I just laugh merrily and pick myself up. I spend approximately five minutes putting together that I'm actually not at an airport, or in Boston, and ask a stranger what's the dilly-oh? He tells me I'm in Newton, Mass. I get back on the bus covered in snow and shame.

When the bus finally arrives in Boston, it's not directly to Logan but to the Greyhound station adjacent to Logan, and it lets us all out. It's snowing real bad at this point. I make my way to the Greyhound station only to be greeted by a nice sign standing up clearly on the desk, saving me an upsetting conversation, that clearly states all buses to Maine have been cancelled. I'm appalled. And don't feel like spending the night in this really crappy hexagonal bus terminal. I find a D'Angelo's and buy a Gobbler and think my situation over. Stomach full of hot turkey, stuffing, gravy and cranberry sauce I stand up and survey my situation. In every facet of the hexagon there are enclaved areas hosting two travel companies each. I notice the reputable Fung-Wah of legend and lore. I make my way around until I spot my saving grace: Continental Trailways!!

And they were still running! All the way up to Augusta. I forget how much the ticket was because frankly at this point I've spent so much money just trying to make it home I don't even want to think about my account balance, much less look at it. I only have to wait ten minutes before the bus to Portland arrives. My heart rejoices.

On the close to empty trip up, we watch Song and Lyrics on the little overheard TV's. You know, I never really gave Hugh Grant a chance. The snow is reeeeally coming down now, we're crawling up the interstate. I barely can tell we cross the Piscataqua River, dividing New Hampshire from the Great State of Maine, "The Way Life Should Be." Occasionally I'll make out a large green highway sign with names on it like Kennebunkport, or York, or Wells, but I can't recall which of these is supposed to be closer or farther than the other. The passengers around me don't know the area either, and ask themselves and others aloud how much farther till Portland? I seem to be the only native, so I guess them my best answer in a traditional Mainer style: "Not too far now."

Soon the driver comes over the speaker, assuring us in fifteen minutes we'll be off this shitkicker and in safe, warm, indoor areas that can't break down on the side of a highway in a snowdrift.

And then I'm off. Free. Home. Portland, Maine.

It doesn't take long for my girlfriend to arrive in her car, and I'm rewarded at the end of my odyssey by a big long romantic embrace. I pick her up and swing around. Everyone in the station doesn't care, but still watches.

San Francisco to Portland. Damn, this was long. I might adapt it to a short novella or episodic serial with ficitonal content added in or something. Maybe read it all tomorrow and cut out the boring parts. That's unlikely, I'll just end up adding more unnecessary detail. But seriously, folks. It was one hell of a trip. A true misadventure.