The Flight from Hell (and other tales of misadventure in modern travel)

History has not been kind to fascism with one major exception: their singular capacity to make mass transit function in a regular, timely fashion. A weekend or so ago the captain and I were actually feeling a certain amount of nostalgia for the iron-fisted rule of a punctual despot despite our avowed Trotskist proclivities as a result of a veritable comedy of travel related errors.

The adventure started innocently enough, but I guess that can be said about most disasterous travel experiences.

At least they got peanuts...

We made our way to the Detroit-Wayne International Airport without incident or delay via a well-traveled thoroughfare that was ominously free of traffic -- it was a friday evening after all, and the road should have been packed full of weary laborers returning to the pleasant respite that is Detroit's great suburban hinterland. This should have been our first indication that some powerful forces out of the ordinary way of things were acting upon our collective fate, but we were blissfully unaware and continued to the discount parking lot without heeding the ill-tidings of these unseasonably clear highways.

We arrived at the parking lot and were picked up by a surly, salt-of-the-earth sort of fellow who made several none-too-witty remarks about the Captain's (i.e. the respectable owner of this blog) ever-present pillow. Nevertheless, he was game enough to load our bags into the rear of his van, and we clamored in as well, making our fateful way towards the Northwest World Terminal, from which we were scheduled to depart.

Everything seemed to be going well: we were right on schedule to make it to the terminal with plenty of time to go through security, catch our flight, and perhaps even secure some sort of tasty snack. However, as we sat on the sticky, vinyl seats of the van, breathing in the faint aroma of fried fish my phone began to ring, sounding what would ultimately be the first toll of our journey's death knell.

It was my mother, and her voice came bearing bad news: our flight that day had been canceled. As we had just arrived at the airport, we elected to seek an audience with one of the friendly representatives of Northwest Airlines. After some valiant searching on the part of this brave gatekeeper of the skies, it was determined that our best option would be to reschedule our flight for one that left the subsequent day, and had a layover in scenic Memphis.

So, while the Captain kept a steady eye on our belongings, I rendezvoused with our surly chauffeur, who took me with great expedition back to our car in the bargain lot. After paying for a full day's parking, I picked the Captain up at the terminal, and we drove home having expended a few hours and several dollars, but with our faith in the righteousness of our mission unshaken.

Day 2

After a much needed rest (the two of us have both been operating considerably below the doctor recommended threshold of restedness lately), we again succeeded in driving to the airport in a timely fashion, finding a parking spot in the discount lot, and being ferried to the terminal by a (different) curmudgeon.

This time around we actually checked in, made it through security and boarded a flight. We had the additional pleasure of being checked in by a delightful middle-aged woman by the name of Peaches.

Our flight to Memphis was as one expects flights to Memphis to be -- nasty, brutish and populated by an inordinate number of whiny children -- but one expects such things, so we weren't sorely tried. The flight went smoothly, and featured the traditional selection of in-flight beverage choices.

If there were any evil omens in the skies of Tennessee that day, we were blissfully unaware of them, as we disembarked from our plane in the humid warmth of Memphis. Now it is generally the case that an airport of any size and in possession of modern appointments will have a wide range of shopping and dining options available to the airborne traveler. For unknown reasons Memphis does not adhere to this beneficial tendency, and one is limited in his edible options to several bbq restaurants and Lenny's Subshop. Now, in general bbq food is all well and good, but in an airport, where one lacks ready access to clean bathrooms and/or grass to clean oneself with following its consumption, this delicacy is just impractical. This means that one really has to content oneself with the rather suspect-seeming fare available at Lenny's. Despite its apparent lack of charm, Lenny's does end up delivering highly edible sandwiches, chips and cookies.

Following our repast, we boarded our jet headed to Baltimore-Washington International airport right on time. Everything seemed to be going great today! We taxied onto the runway, and we didn't even have to wait forever! Before I knew it, I was dozing off thousands of feet above the surface of the earth while we whisked away toward BWI.

It was about an hour into the journey when things first started to go wrong. The pilot came on the loudspeaker and announced that -- due to bad weather -- we would be in a holding pattern for the next hour at least just over West Virginia. Well, we said to ourselves, an extra hour isn't too bad, we'll still get there at least! Though, in the back of our minds, I think that we knew even then that it things were not fated to end well.

We carried on bravely all the same, and I managed to fall back into an uneasy slumber -- my mind troubled perhaps by a strange inkling of the doom that stalked us at every turn. I was rudely awakened a short interval later by another announcement from our captain. We would, he said, be landing in Pittsburgh, our prospects unknown, because of the forbidding weather that persisted in shrouding the eastern seaboard from all approaching planes.

We were of course quite concerned about the future of our trip when we landed, closer to our point of origination than destination. This being the case, I approached the flight attendant at the front of the plane as soon as was convenient to assess our options. As I walked down the narrow aisle of the plane, before I even opened my mouth in salutation, she greeted me with a brusque "Yes, sir, we're all hungry, but I'm afraid that we can't feed you now."

Like the Donner Party, she would have known it if I were hungry

This opening left me completely unmanned, and I didn't really end up getting much information out of the remainder of the interchange. I returned to my seat next to the Captain, who upon hearing the result of my first attempt, exhorted me to make a second. This second essay yielded much the same result, which greatly increased our mutual frustration. We endured the uncertainty and tediousness of waiting on a runway in a completely random airport until we were finally told that we could leave the plane ostensibly to secure food as "all the restaurants in Pittsburgh's airport close early on Saturday of all days."

Unbeknownst to the flight attendant that realeased us from our hitherto airborne gaol, the Captain and I had hatched a daring plan of escape from any further flight-induced frustration. In clandestine discussion we had resolved that if we were permitted to leave that plane's cabin, it would take more than the prospect of eventually reaching BWI to get us back in one again. Instead, we planned to secure a rental car and drive back home, across state lines, as we felt that we had expended enough time in airports already.

After carefully skirting security and all other potential obstructions, we arrived at the area of the Pittsburgh airport where one rents automobiles from various vendors. There was another scary moment when the first three rental places we approached told us that they were on a reservation basis only at that point, but we still managed to succeed in getting a car at the fourth place that we looked. The gentleman who handled our rental was a consummate salesman, managing to convince not only to purchase the rental, but insurance to boot! We felt so extravagant.

The drive itself is perhaps best omitted from this post, as it has already gotten prohibitively long. However I would be remiss if I didn't mention the fact that whilst trying to find the Pennsylvania Turnpike we happened upon a "Croatian Community Center," that advertised a weekly fish fry among other things. Needless to say, the relative benefits of roadtrippin' have become increasingly salient to us of late. Hopefully our suffering will be a warning to other unsuspecting travelers about the dangers of leaving the house, and dismissing the merits of brutal dictators too hastily.