Return Trip Travails
Ahh, “the return trip”, the less-talked-about journey when covering the to-and-fro regarding that Thanksgiving Day spent at the in-laws, the long-weekend getaway to Vegas, or, in my case, the extended two-week vacation across the country to visit friends and family, the one I referred to in my last blog. The one I recently returned from. In one piece. Kinda.
It’s funny how a trip covers the same basic route both coming and going and yet couldn’t be more different as far as perspective is concerned. On the way there I was full of anticipation, excited at the prospect of seeing loved ones while experiencing autumn in all its glory in New England. So much so that extended turbulence, crying babies, and a pedestrian airline wine selection couldn’t put a dent in my buoyant disposition. Hell, I was about to revisit my old stomping grounds; these minor setbacks were just part and parcel of the travel experience. The tiniest of glitches, the smallest of setbacks. A nothingburger, really.
Anyway, the sojourn lasted sixteen days, exceeding my normal patience shelf life by about a week. Talkin’ tons of hours on the road with the rental car, multiple stay-overs, and a social calendar that would make Harry Styles and Bad Bunny look like a couple of Buddhist monks. Totally secluded. On Xanax. So, yeah, I guess what I’m saying is, come the day of the return trip, I was operating on fumes, my earlier enthusiastic mood nowhere to be found. In its stead, I muscled up my best stoic countenance for what was to become a never-ending, mind-numbing, combination of punches to the gut. A disturbing, traumatic, in-your-face, Keystone Kops misadventure designed to scar a person for life. Or at least for the foreseeable future.
Let’s start with the rain. The kind that brings to mind the words “downpour” or “cloudburst”, or let’s just say it… “Noah’s Ark”. In the early morn, on the way to the airport, the headlights on full blast and the windshield wipers laboring at double-time-and-a-half, providing a maximum of ten yards of visibility, my knuckles white on the steering wheel and flop sweat on my brow, I slogged the twenty-mile highway route to Bradley International Airport in Connecticut. Never the religious guy, I somehow managed to conjure up a half dozen rosaries, a long-winded full-life confession and a “cross my heart” promise to the Big Guy to join the seminary if I somehow made it out alive. Amazingly, I did.
CUT TO: The airport experience, featuring me, suddenly beltless, anxiously holding up my pants as the TSA did their thing, scoping out my carry-on before ushering me into the full body scan machine for my close-up, the invasive procedure taking a turn for the worse when I detected a giggle from someone doing the monitoring. And then, finally, I’m off to my connecting flight… in Philadelphia. So, yeah, we’re talkin’ a 90-minute wait before boarding a plane for a jaunt that takes just over an hour, followed by a mad dash involving a jam-packed shuttle bus, virtual hand-to-hand combat with dawdlers unable to grasp the concept of moving sidewalks, and passenger and utility carts doing their best to turn me into roadkill, all within the tiny 30-minute timeframe provided. But damn if I didn’t just make it without a moment to spare, narrowing my travel distance to Cali from 2,520 miles to 2,400 miles. That’s right, a whopping 120 miles!
Regardless, I was finally on board my flight home, letting out a contented sigh, happy to have snagged an aisle seat. Ya know, until I realized the rows directly to my left had been replaced by a restroom destined for gangbuster business the entire trip back. The fact that the dodgy lock on the door kept accidentally opening to provide myself and others with “deer in the headlights” looks from horrified bathroomgoers in poses never meant for public consumption somehow seemed right in line with everything else I’d experienced so far on this maddening day, this Bizarro World return trip from hell (and, yeah, those visions aren’t going away anytime soon).
There was more: An unscheduled extra hour sitting on the tarmac before take-off as technicians wrestled with a computer malfunction or maybe one of the wheels had fallen off (whatever, didn’t much matter to me by this time), proving Murphy’s Law was alive and well and following me home. Oh yeah, and there were no TV monitors on the flight, the airline leaving us to our own devices for entertainment; only my iPhone and tablet refused to play nicely with the plane’s Wi-Fi, while all around me a gaggle of student ENT candidates’ laptops were going full bore, offering me an up-close and personal view of detailed drawings and photos of the insides of people’s ears, noses and throats. That, coupled with the inadvertent restroom door-opening fiascos for the ensuing 5 hours, left me convinced I could ace any upcoming doctor’s exam they put in front of me. It also left me swearing off any possibility of a return trip again… Ever.
Epilogue: Gotta say, when David, my Uber driver, showed up on time, offering a “hello” and nothing more, keeping to himself for the forty-minute ride home, I knew this particular return trip had finally taken a turn for the better. I actually managed a smile as I sat back, my mind racing over the day’s chaos, one event after another and then all somehow blending until… it hit me. Something I couldn’t shake. Something from much earlier in the day. Something inducing me to blurt out, “I’m too old for seminary school; what the hell was I thinkin’?!”, causing David to eye me curiously in the rearview mirror.