NOLA OR BUST Part II

It is the next day and I am sitting in a café on Canal Street with coffee and a croissant. I stepped into my hotel room at around 9:30. See, I told you it wouldn’t be a 12 hour trip. The trip to Atlanta about 4 hours late? I decided to walk the length of that airport due to nausea from flight. I find my gate like a good minor leaguer. I then go back to a food court of sorts. Panda Express is not as good as their marketing but,  It was carbs and sodium and that seemed to heal me.

Ahh nothin soothes the weary white male travellor like some good old fashioned MSG.
(Or it would if it hadn't been vilified and taken out of food)

As I tried to board the plane, the nice woman at the counter told me I had to give her my bag. Perfect! I know this game and tell her that I have a pink tag and will leave at the end of the ramp-thing. She says “no, we need to check it to your final destination.” I did all this bag shopping and freaking out to avoid this. They change the rules at airport like the stairs at Hogwarts and I am openly a muggle. Once de-bagged and re-boarded, the plane ride was quick. Real quick. In my 11.5 hours, I was in the air a total of 1.5. The Wright brothers got it wrong. The transportation infrastructure should have stopped with cars and trains. The other option is a pilots license and a small airport. Anybody want to go in halvsies?

Look you can pick which half you want. I bet we could get a deal.

I get to NOLA and prepare to call the hotel shuttle. There isn’t one. Cue the quiet rumblings of panic. What does a good boy scout with some anxiety do? Check a map to see if it is reasonably walkable. Fourteen miles is just at the edge of that. Public Transport doesn’t come to the airport. I figure out that there is one shared shuttle system and work out purchasing a round trip ticket on it. That takes another hour to get to my hotel. I understand what cattle feel like with all this moving around with no choice but to just go with it.

I was cow number 108. No guys its fine. ITS FINE. I'M FINE

Once I am at the hotel I step out into NOLA. The food is amazing but I always forget the smell. I was too late and missed the actual St. Patrick’s Day parade by about an hour but still got the smell. I check in, excited to be here. They explain the elevator as such. “Put in your number and it will tell you which elevator to get on.” I am not an amateur elevator user. I know how they work. These are the worst instructions ever until I walk over to the elevator bank. There is a bank of 6 elevators and a key pad where you put in your floor and it tells you which elevator to get on. This is kind of cool. The major issue is the number of people to speed of elevator to number of elevators. Sometimes you put in your floor and get ?? or XX for the elevator you should get on. Other times you wait, and I am not embellishing, 5-10 minutes for an elevator.

This was not appreciated at the end of my day. But I am here and going to enjoy the heck out of it. By that I mean the eating.

NOLA OR BUST part I

Well here we go again. I find myself sitting in the Birmingham international airport. I know that all of you will enjoy my misery so, I am going to keep this as a record. I arrived in plenty of time after spending my morning separating child from child and teen from teen.

 I am a pro at air travel now and decided to buy my own carry on last night. It is enormous. If this is a carryon, it is no wonder that airlines are all failing. Fuel costs and over burdensome pension plans pale in comparison. I settled on a nice understated black bag. The decision was narrowed down to that or something Jessica Simpson branded.  I could pack for a month in this thing. I added a bit of flair by adding some accessory cord (very small rope like paracord) to the handle as I am a boy scout and can’t imagine traveling without a bit of rope and a safety pin.

 

I don't know how this isn't a carry on? Is it the liquids?

I digress. I made it here this morning with plenty of time because I was awoken to a text that the flight would be delayed 48 minutes. That’s no big deal, happens all the time. I get dropped off, and someone at a desk outside approached me and asked me something about my bags. He and his compatriots were all wearing Delta uniforms but I am still not sure that I shouldn’t have reported them and this suspicious activity to the TSA.

 

Suspicious I tell you. Playing the long con?

Inside I queue up in the line for my flight (Delta). I am the only person here. There are 5 people at the desk eager to help me. The woman asks me immediately if I am going to check my bag. I panic. It said it was a carry on when I bought it. I can’t imagine the look I gave the poor woman when I gave her my best “No?” She acquiesces, handing me boarding passes (tickets?) allowing me to travel with this steamer trunk that society has deemed a carry on. If you can’t pick it up and carry it 150 yds then it shouldn’t count as a carry on. I could with mine but looking around, I have doubts about others.

That was warm up panic. Next is the secret club handshake of frequent flyers, security screening. No big deal. Remember, I am an air travel professional now. I nod knowingly at my other ATPs as I have my ticket (boarding pass?) and my ID out. Shoes loosened, briefcase unzipped for quick laptop removal, pockets clear, belt removed. I am doing this! The people in front of me are not ATPs and cause panic to start creeping in. The line behind me is piling up and the ATPs back there are probably assuming fault lies with the tall guy. Anxiety causes me to grab a stack of bins that is excessive in number and my entire plan to fall apart. Also, since when do snacks have to come out of your bags??? I do not travel light in the snack department. Then it WAS my fault and I have been sent back to the Air Travel minor leagues.

Assume you will need 4 and so you grab 15 on accident in a panic. 

My things come out the other side blocked in by the amateurs in front of me. I hear the couple discussing her pat down and this doesn’t help then get their bins any faster. The people behind me are now sure that it is my fault and are talking in hushed tones about the moral fiber of a man who takes this long. I am half into the process of sliding down while reassembling when a true hero among men shows me the way. This man (who looks like a combination of Patton Oswald and the comic book guy from the Simpsons) stacks all 4 of his bins and just walks out as though he is leaving the screening area. YOU CAN DO THAT? I assumed you had to pull it together on the conveyor. Oh no. This man took his bins to a bench within the screening and sits down. He leisurely and efficiently repacks and is on his way to get his diet coke (not a judgement call, I saw him buy it). I take my remaining bins, a single shoe half on now, stack them haphazardly and follow suit, passing the neophytes. I look back to see the hoard of ATPs judging me. They are all looking away but I know they were staring.

This is what the line at security looked like behind me. I was the guy in front holding it back (in one shoe). No pressure.

I walked to my gate and have sat down only to be delayed another hour. I checked the status of all the airports and it appears that the world is doing just fine. It is just my plane. I am a minor-league Air Traveler. No big deal. I will certainly miss my second flight in Atlanta and will have to deal with that. I am uncertain if I should do that now or after I get to Atlanta? It is close enough to noon now that I can consider calling upon my secret weapon, day drinking. Anxiety may have met its match in Coffee Oatmeal Stout but, I am scared to walk the 15 yards over there that my flight will get here and leave without me in those 30 seconds. NOLA OR BUST