Airport Saga

                                                            

Airport Saga

Late August, 2015.

We are flying from NJ to CA, five passengers in our group: Anna 12, Emma 13, Mike 14, mother Brett 46, and grandpa, yours truly, 75. There is one stopover, in Chicago, a fifty minute window to change planes, and connect to LA.

Bad weather over Ohio causes a thirty minute delay before takeoff from Newark so our connection time is now down to twenty minutes. Ten minutes exiting the plane and we'll have just ten left.

I can only think, we'll never make the connection.

Off the plane at Chicago's O'Hare, I spot a nearby official. "Where is Terminal H?”
I shout as we bolt past.

“Straight ahead, then second left,” she says, pointing the way.

“How far?” I yell over my shoulder.

“A mile,” she says.

Perhaps thirty years back, circling a track in ideal weather and strong wind always at my back, I could cover a mile in 12 minutes, not sure really, but at 75, lugging an over-sized duffel bag with ten days worth of clothes plus a computer case slung around my neck and swinging side to side. - not likely.

Regardless, we sprint onward. I lead the pack for maybe a hundred yards, but then, despite feeling legitimately proud of my early speed, I give in and fall back like a NASCAR pace car. My new aim: just keep the leaders in sight.

I am dripping sweat and well behind the teenagers and their forty-six year old mom when we turn the corner into terminal H.  

At our gate, 12, the plane is just pulling out as we arrive. Not a soul in the boarding area.

My shoulders drop. I really thought we had a chance. Planes take off late all the time. Why not this one? 

Despondent, we shuffle over to United's departure board to check for possible later flights.  

Suddenly I notice that our flight number (1752 United) is actually listed as delayed for “mechanical problems” and it is leaving from another gate in an hour and forty minutes.

So, good news, we didn’t miss it. It was actually a different plane we saw pulling out. 

OK. Great!

And the bad news? Brett announces there was no way she is going to get on a plane with “mechanical problems.”

I let this pass. We have almost two hours. Things could change.

Brett doesn’t follow us to the new gate. She takes off for United’s customer service counter where she is told that they don’t know the exact problem, but it could be “something as simple as a broken light bulb.” 

“It doesn’t take two hours to replace a light bulb,” is Brett’s summation of her exchange with customer service. 

I spend the remaining hour trying to persuade Brett to get on board.  Between failed attempts I busy myself pretending to look for alternate methods to LA, car, train, bus, another flight etc. 

Emma dials up her dad in NJ. 

Son-in-law Tom calls me, saying that he has “hotel points” and can get us a room in Chicago (for five?) with his "airplane miles." That doesn’t really appeal to me. My position is to wait out the day. Perhaps, at nightfall, the thought of myself among five forlorn souls sleeping in the airport will motivate me, and others, towards an alternative. But not now.

Finally they bring in our plane. 

Brett bad-mouths it, as she watches it roll up to the gate. "No way," she announces.

Then suddenly we see passengers coming through the exit tunnel. Apparently this (our plane) has flown here from somewhere, with passengers  … so … it can't be the one with “mechanical problems." because a safe flight just ended,

We accost the exiting passengers: "Did the plane fly OK?" (I’m not making this up). One or two, avoiding our gaze, nod, affirmative. 

Brett finally agrees to get on. She is ultimately swayed because she notices two famous celebrities boarding ahead of us. She says it must be OK if they (Seth Rogan and a young woman singer, somebody named G) are on the plane.

So  – miracle - we take off and 4 hours later land safely in LA. All is well.

Clothes in a Haystack

Clothes in a Haystack

I’m in Manhattan Beach (MB on bumper stickers), an upscale coastal town in Southern California (SoCal to West-Coasters).

Yesterday my two granddaughters, ages 13 and 14, rode their bikes to MB, 5 miles north on a bike path they call The Strand which runs along the beach like a cement boardwalk. The girls returned raving about a particular store they visited, that they referred to as L-F.

“Lif?” I said, pronouncing a word that sounded like if.

“L then F,” they shot back, giggling.

What did I know?

 Apparently Anna had spotted a “top” or two that she "definitely really, really" wanted.

“It’s their annual three day sale. Everything is 60% off,” she announced to all.

Daughter Brett, mother of Anna, was not impressed. As for L-F prices, “way up there” was Brett's  phrase, then adding, “Minus 60%, not even a drop in the bucket.”

Hmmmmm.
   

Anna pressed on. As I saw it, her strategy was long term, persistence without end, until someone relents and agrees to transport them to L-F ... and bring a credit card.

Who would that be? Credit card, I mean.

Brett didn’t drop her objection, but her tone softened as the evening wore on. I could see it was a done deal.

So I was on board. I had not listened intently to all of Anna’s accolades about L-F, but I caught enough to know that I'd be on the hook for an item or two. But hey, it was 60% off. How bad could it be?     

We rode over the following afternoon.

On the way, I said, “I hope your tops are not gone.”

“I hid them.” Anna said.

“Where would that be?” I said, a bit skeptical.

“Under stuff.”

I still wasn’t convinced. I hoped she wouldn’t be disappointed.

Here’s what I saw when we walked in:

 

         

Let's just say, "Everything was under stuff."  I strolled around for a bit. 

 

"Just looking," I said to a clerk. 

 

Eventually, I went outside and stood by a parking meter. I was in and out - parking meter / just looking - for maybe an hour or more. Time passed. There was little doubt that Anna's search would be a long process.

In case you haven’t figured it out as yet, twelve year olds are much more adept at various tasks than the guardian class (us). I don’t care if I had tied a radioactive isotope to each garment that Anna had hidden, then searched with a Geiger counter, I would never, NEVER, have found anything, much less what I was looking for in this "haystack" known as L-F. On every table, every rack, and shelf there were gigantic piles of clothes that resembled humongous laundromat loads of wet wash (see images above). I could only think, "needle in the haystack." In a word, hopeless.

To my amazement, Anna found all four items.

So that was it, the great L-F sale. Hmm.

I couldn't believe this place, especially the the whole laundromat mess, but then no one else seemed to mind. There were plenty of customers.

What did I know?

Anna mercifully settled on just two items, both  tops. Total price $102.02. Without the sale discount we’re talking a regular price tally of $255.05 for the two pieces, each with an approximate fabric mass of a handkerchief.

 The good news? I saved over $150.