One for the Record Books

I've had some travel adventures, but this might be the longest trip EVER.

First, leaving Monday for a 6am flight meant I had to get out of bed by 3am to shovel the car out from the 'blizzard'. The good news was that the sustained winds of 25mph had scoured most of the snow off the car. It had also frozen some of the doors and all of the windows shut.

I made it to the airport, through Atlanta and to DC right on time. I will note, the other flights out of Evansville through Detroit and Cincy were canceled. I just got lucky that I happened to make this one through Atlanta.

Work was work. It was a crazy week of client meetings, long dinners and little sleep.

Thursday, DC got about an inch or two of snow, which crippled the city, canceled schools, and eventually canceled my 6pm flight through Cincy. At least I found out before I left for the airport, and I was able to get back into the Sheraton, where I'd spent the week. The rate was so low, I was able to book a 'bed and breakfast' stay for less than the per diem. And it was good I had a nice big breakfast Friday morning, because here is where the fun starts.

I left a bit early for the airport for my 11am flight, because Delta wouldn't let me check-in online. The kiosk didn't work either, so I stood in line (the priority line) for about 30 minutes. By the time I made it through security (no frisking!), I was essentially able to walk right on to the plane. I had a middle seat, but it was an exit row, so I had plenty of legroom and my seat mates did not appear to be talkers or mouth breathers.

Unfortunately as we pushed back from the gate, the pilots realized the right engine wouldn't start. Maybe it was the starter. Maybe they'd have the part on site. Either way, y'all better get off the plane. Great.

They asked us to get in line to rebook, but being the experienced traveler I am, I knew to get on the phone too. First call to our travel agency, Amex. Since the airline had changed my flight to Friday, Amex couldn't alter it. So I called Delta. They were happy to get me on another flight. On American. At 6:30. Arriving after 10pm. So I have to exit security and go get my tickets? No, says the Delta agent on the phone, American is in the same terminal. Just go to the gate and they'll give you boarding passes.

Um, no.

American and Delta are in the same physical building, but their concourses require you to exit security and go back through. Of course, once you exit security, and you don't have a valid boarding pass, you cannot come back through security. So up to ticketing to wait, yes, another 20 minutes in line for American. The priority line wasn't moving. I had luck in the regular line.

The American representative indignantly informed me all of their flights were oversold and that Delta shouldn't have booked me. I'll have to go back to Delta and have them find something else. Oh goodie. I actually said that, but as I walked away, the American rep said "oh wait, let me try something else" and SURPRISE found my reservation on the 5:15 flight, all ready to go. Well, except Delta hadn't turned the reservation over to American. I'd need to go back to the Delta counter. "But don't stand in line here again, just come back to me."

To Delta. Who can't figure out what is wrong or where I should be. After much button-punching and mumbling, she finally read the piece of paper I gave her and found me. Yay! Here's your itinerary. Just go back to American.

Yes, well, jumping the line sounded like a great idea, until the people standing there saw me do it. I momentarily feared for my life. But finally I had boarding passes. And four hours to kill.

Finally, it was time to go. I made it through Chicago, had time for dinner and after one gate change, was on to Evansville. Yay.

Where my car was dead. And covered with a sheet of ice. All week I had the feeling my car would be dead when I got in. I thought the cold would kill it. Apparently when I thought couldn't get the door open to the back seat on Monday, I was mistaken. It was open just enough to run the battery down. I have jumper cables, but no idea how to use them. I call my daddy. Yes, I am 40 years old and on the management team at a big four accounting firm. I still call my daddy.

Dozens of people walk past the woman chipping ice off her car in dress shoes with the hood up. They avert their eyes. That's the Christmas spirit! Finally, one man asks if I need help. Thanks, you are the only person to ask, but my dad's on the way. The stranger doesn't have jumper cables anyway. I do. Well, then let's give it a shot.

The battery is on the passenger side of the car. We'll have to push it out of the parking spot. Several more people walk by as we slip and slide across the ice, trying to move the RAV4 out of the spot. Finally, it is out, Mr. Niceguy jumps the battery and I'm all good. Daddy's already at the airport, so he'll follow me home to be sure I make it.

But we aren't done yet. There is still a half inch of ice covering the car. Now that it is running with the heater on, it is a little easier to chip it off. I still break the handle off the ice scraper. And there's slush down my sleeve. Gloves are soaked. Feet are frozen. Ice is melting out of my hair and dripping in my eyes. But finally, we're on the road.

A dark road with curves. Thank God I was actually following Dad. An eight-point buck was standing at the side of the road, watching us go past. I might not have seen him, but dads are trained for that kind of stuff.

And that was the last of my adventure. Home, hugged the girl, snuggled with cats and dogs and started some history show to put me to sleep. Ahhhh.

All in a week with the Pook.