Traveling in Relative Hell.
Our final post revolves around security. As we awoke 22 hours ago to meet our driver for our morning flight, we felt ill at ease when said driver was late and unreachable for 25 minutes. The bellman fortunately got us a cab, then our long-term relationship with airport security began. Aside from my Mom’s titanium rod in her shoulder and Kaplan women’s underwire bras being a potential harbinger for the next blitzkieg, I was patted so much by security that I think I’m now dating an officious British woman who can rock a pair of striped polyester uniform pants. I neglected to be quality control for my mother and sisters’ carry-ons. I think they thought the travel “don’t” illustrations were a packing schematic as their carry-ones contained scissors, razors, shampoos, creams, ointments, and some lovely preserves. Keep calm and carry-on doesn’t apply to security checking their carry-ons for 25 minutes, of which 10 were the start of boarding at our gate advertised as a 15-minute walk away. Once free to leave, I pushed my mom in a wheelchair with 2 carry-ons by the handles and a backpack on my back, while Dev Hopalong had a walker, and Lauren (the other pack mule) carried Dev’s 2 other carry-ons. Of course, we couldn’t take escalators with Mom’s hot wheels and had to walk to the far recesses of each concourse to find the “lifts”. As we entered the B concourse, they announced final boarding for our flight, so I ran with the wheelchair, my Mom, and her baggage figuring my ensuing heart attack would create enough of a diversion to let the three of them board much like a WWII movie where the dying comrade croaks “Save yourself, go without me” before dying. We just made the flight. Luckily, my Mom left her C4 explosives at home or we never would’ve made it. As I drop my Mom and Lauren off for their trip back to Florida tomorrow, I’m going to sign over my 401k to the nearest sky cap, who offers to check them through without my help. Until next time…
Rubber Chicken 