Friday, June 24
Just after midnight last night I checked into a cheap motel along the highway in Atlanta.
I had been traveling and in airports for close to 24 hours and I was tired. The muggy, southern air was heavy and close. I had a discount voucher from the airline for one hotel, but while standing out on the curb waiting for the hotel shuttle, a hustling driver from another place came by and said that, instead of my waiting a half hour for the other shuttle to arrive, he could get me to the hotel he works for in a matter of minutes (uh huh. yeah right. sure.) and that they would honor the voucher.
Perhaps not the best means for choosing lodging at midnight in a city I don’t know, but I was full-up with waiting, said “yes” and got into the marked van. He loaded my bag in the back, said he’d return in a couple minutes then I watched as he went off to hustle other women travelers, suggesting that they also switch hotels and ride with him. (Sounds like a scam. He must get a commission.)
I was expecting the hotel to be on some perimeter road across the street from the airport. But we seemed to drive and drive on the highway, getting nowhere. “Hey!? how far away IS this place?”, I asked. He explained the size of the airport property itself and how long it takes just to get beyond it’s borders. It took about 12 minutes and we arrived at the EconoLodge “Hotel”. (Calling this place a “hotel” was a real stretch. More like the “No-Tell Motel”.) I checked in, walked up the stairs and when going along the exterior passage to my room, noticed a dead potted plant in one of the room windows. Apparently there are more than just stranded airport travelers that stay here. Perhaps some folks stay longer than they ever anticipated… and some only stay for an hour. (wink wink.)
I double locked the door, turned on the AC against the stuffy room and muggy night, washed up after the long day traveling, and at close to 1:00 a.m. crashed into bed. The sheets appeared clean. (or clean enough.)
With the alarm set for 5:00, I wasn’t expecting much sleep and indeed, didn’t get it. Anxious to get home, afraid of my alarm not going off and feeling either too chilled or too stuffy, it was a fitful few hours.
Why the cheap hotel? Twenty-four hours earlier, I had hailed a cab in Milano, taken a train to the airport, then waited anxiously for a Milano-Atlanta seat assignment on a Summer, early-weekend morning. Flying standby comes with no assurances. About three minutes before they closed the flight, I was handed a card for seat 5D. I had gotten on the flight (!) and into Business/First Class! For the ten-and-half-hour flight, that was a much-welcomed surprise. I was treated like a queen and would have had plenty of room to stretch out legs twice as long as mine.
I slept some. Put a big dent in a murder mystery and arrived in Atlanta at 3:30 with three hours to kill before the first evening flight at 7:20.
I went from number 15 in the standby queue to number 5… and the flight left without me. The next flight was scheduled for 10:20 p.m. I hung out near the gate with other passengers, both confirmed and standby, and watched my position go from 16 to 5 again. The flight left an hour late, again without me. I had been waiting at the airport for 8 hours.
Stranded standby passengers queued up at the counter for information about baggage that had been checked, hotel vouchers and being rolled-over to the first flights for today.
Arriving at the airport this morning at 6:15, after little sleep and an only moderately-acceptable “Continental Breakfast”, I got through security and to the gate. I started at position number 15 in the list and the attendant at the check-in counter said “I’ll start praying for you now” when I asked her about my chances of getting on. She told me that there were seven flights to Seattle today and that I could hang out at the airport and see if I might get onto one of them. In the meantime, my position in the queue crashed to number 30.
No! I was flying home today one way or another! She told me there were two paid spots left available on the flight. At 7:40, I hustled down to the distant end of the concourse to a ticket counter, bought a ticket for the 8:20 flight and hustled back. I paid enough to gag a horse, but I had spent eight hours waiting and hoping yesterday. I was NOT going to hang out all day just to SEE if I could get on.
I arrived in Seattle at 10:30 and my bags were already there waiting for me.
Good to be home.
– – –
Postscript:
It’s now Sunday night, the 26th. I got to my house Friday at about noon and have had a chance to unpack my bags, restock the fridge, go to the gym 3 nights in a row, mow my lawn, tidy up the garden, sort my mail and see friends. And I’m all ready for Monday morning and back in full swing for work. If I hadn’t bought that ticket, I might still be in Atlanta waiting for a ride home.
Morals:
“That’s why God invented credit cards.”
“How much is my time worth?”
“Friends don’t let friends fly standby.”