Crash Landing -- in transit

And the Grasshopper did not land on her feet.

No, indeed. The Grasshopper crash-landed. The Grasshopper nearly crash-landed all the way back to Philadelphia on the 11:15 flight the Gard at immigration so thoughtfully arranged for her.

The first day of my new way of living was not nearly as magical as I’d been dreaming about. However, I’m choosing to interpret this unfortunate turn of events not as a blatant foreshadowing of hardships and complications ahead, but as a sign of my ability to deal with god-awful crash landings. Not with finesse of any sort, mind you – but with enough determination and resolve to make it through some seriously daunting situations.

I’m also not above begging. Of which I did a good deal.

My last few hours in Colorado were beautiful. Monday was a whirlwind of coffee dates, frantic last-minute purchases, those prolonged hugs that leave you feeling out of breath, celebration margaritas and loads of indulgent cheese fondue at Sara’s.

I set off early Tuesday morning to enjoy my last cup of coffee at Main Street Bagels. Walking through downtown in the morning is a favorite past time. I appreciate the stillness, the coolness, peering in through the doors of the closed shops, and the characters one meets when normal people are still abed. Ambling over the wooden floor, I proudly handed over my filled out punch card to the curiously surly barista and ordered my favorite drink. Cuban Cremoses, you will be sorely missed.

My mother arrived to pick me up at 7:30, and after final hugs to Janet, Dave, and Rudy, we loaded my plum backpack and lime green carry-on into her Toyota. I left the final key on the coaster of what had been my bedside table. Taking it off my keychain was hard, but it was time. It was time to commence the next stage of my life, and it is a stage wherein keys and locks have no place.

We drove down Highway 6&50 and my father’s sign, Bourget Design and Millwork, loomed ahead. Taking a sharp left, we pulled into the driveway.  Work at my father’s shop had funded my last adventure – work I couldn’t stand, but was thankful for because of the opportunities earning money would bring. Lest I be misunderstood, Mike has a magnificent business – loud machinery/general labor just isn’t my particular cup of tea.  So feelings of accomplishment, relief, and resolution accompanied me through my father’s doors, as I realized that I earned this new life without sanding a single piece of molding. I earned this life through gardening, counseling, babysitting, modeling, cooking, teaching yoga, and painting. My passion is funded by my passions.

Goodbye to Mike was hard. I’ve always been a daddy’s girl and I definitely felt a hole when I tearfully broke that hug.

Mom and I detoured to Hanging Lake and hastily scrambled up the mountain. I tried to appreciate the scenery as if I were in a foreign country and observing everything for the first time. I pretended like I had been challenged to identify different flora and listened for the birdcalls as if Jackson had given me a specific species to tune in to.

 

If you’re a member of the Bourget family, you have an obligation to run down Hanging Lake. It’s a long, obnoxious tradition, but must be adhered to. People huffing and puffing their way up laugh and wish they were running down. They sometimes ask how much further they have to hike. If you are a Bourget, you have an obligation to smile and say, "you're about halfway there," regardless of how far the person actually is up the trail. People plodding down already grumble as you whiz pass and shout, “Show off!” as you disappear through the trees.

We stopped for a surprisingly delicious and tasteful (not the same thing) lunch in Eagle at a restaurant called “Yummy Café”, at a sinfully good coffee shop in Frisco (their mocha buzz had my mom tripping for hours), and then drove straight to Denver with nary a mishap due to iPhone maps. I bought a dry bag for my essential oils at the massive REI, we drove to the art museum (only to find out it was closed), and then decided to spend the evening lazing around the Tattered Cover bookstore. This is always a good decision. I caught up with an old colleague (which feels ridiculous to say) and dear friend, Julie Michalak. Another goodbye.

My college roommate had agreed to let my mom and me spend the night at her home in Denver, so my first couch away from home was spent reminiscing college years and sharing my dreams with an old friend who has always made me feel loved and supported.

 

Driving to the airport the next day was fine. We got lost once, but that’s to be expected. It took forever to park, but that’s also to be expected. My bag weighed only 30 pounds, which was a delightful surprise. It seemed rather unusual that the ticket lady only printed off two of my tickets instead of three, and I had to run back and ask “umm...whatever happened to my ticket from Denver to New York?” Starting my period was a less than delightful surprise, as was the fact that my plane ticket showed my flight leaving half an hour earlier than my email had stated. The fact that I’d forgotten to tell my bank account I’d be leaving the country dawned on me as we scarfed down our omelets, and I made a very hurried (and rather rude) phone call to customer service.

That was most certainly just my own damn fault.

We rushed down to the security lines, I frantically said goodbye to my dear mother (who’d been so patient and good to me in my flustered state of anxiety), and joined a line. I tried to use George Clooney’s “Up in the Air” strategy as far as placing myself in the fastest moving line, but it utterly failed me. I should have changed lines twenty minutes in when I realized that I’d maybe taken two steps in those twenty minutes, but I’m too much of a committer for that.

I made it to my gate long after they’d started boarding the flight, but with a couple of minutes to spare before they shut the doors. This has never happened to me before. I’m the one waiting at the gate with a book, a chocolate bar, and an hour to while away. Rushing into a plane last minute is not something I’m very fond of.

The silence of an aircraft is a strange thing. It’s as if the passengers have all taken a solemn oath not to speak to one another unless verbal communication is absolutely unavoidable. Most seem to find ways to communicate via shrugs. Others don’t bother in the least, and absorb themselves in the titillating SkyStore magazines. The only words exchanged between my row-mates and I were “excuse me,” and “sorry.” The flight from Denver to New York lasted four hours, and I really had to get up to pee, but I didn't want to have to squeeze past the two other grimly silent passengers in my row. So I sat tight and held it.

After the plane landed, I whipped out my next ticket and start wandering back and forth in the terminal, scanning the walls for Gate C36.

I saw Gate C1 – C13.

I stopped and asked one of the most approachable ladies working at a gate.

“Excuse me, “ I began tremulously as she glared at me for interrupting, “I’m looking for gate C36. Can you tell me where I can find that?”

“I have no idea,” her New York accent was curt and harsh.

“It only goes to C13 here,” I continued and handed her my itinerary to illustrate my point.

“You’re flyin’ American Express,” she said with a ring of exasperated finality.

“Yes...” I didn’t understand what she was getting at. In my experience, different airlines haven’t been such fierce rivals that they’re incapable of sharing a terminal.

“That’s Terminal C”

“This isn’t Terminal C?”

“No.”

“Could you tell me how to find terminal C?”

“Downstairs, take a left.”

“Downstairs...”

“And take a left!”

“Thanks so much,” I blurted out before I fled the presence of the angry New Yorker. Maybe that’s the reason airlines can’t share terminals here, I thought as I plodded to the stairs. Wait a minute, this can’t be right. I noticed the sign that said I must go through security again if I followed the stairs down. Why would they be so inefficient as to make me go through security again? Why would they be so cruel as to make me go through security again?

I walked back to the C1-C13 section. I purposefully avoided the previous woman, and decided to approach a gate manned by two young men, one of them already helping another passenger. This looks promising, my hopes soared.

If passengers sign an oath to not speak to one another throughout the flight unless absolutely necessary, then the gate employees swear upon their firstborn to not so much as LOOK at passengers unless absolutely necessary and have become uncanny experts at making you feel like you’re not even there. I stood directly in front of this man for five minutes, and he did not even acknowledge my presence.

So I left. Which is exactly what he’d hoped would happen, I ‘m sure.

Ah, a janitor. Hallelujah. Perhaps she’ll be more helpful. Guiding lost passengers can’t be quite as unpleasant as cleaning these toilets (I’d already availed myself to one of the terminal airports and was quite aware of their woebegone nature).

“Can you tell me how to get to Terminal C?”

“Downstairs and take a left. Then keep goin’ straight,” she pointedly returned to her cart of cleaning supplies.

“Uh...” This had been two people telling me to leave the building. They were probably right. “Is there – “ I found myself talking to this air. Looking at the sign warning me that my exit meant standing in line, emptying my pockets, and stripping down to my socks again, I regretfully pulled my rolly through.

Once outside in the hot and humid New York climate, I took a left. Nothing. My thoughts grumbled in frustration. I don’t see any signs for how to get to Terminal C.

“Excuse me!” I held up a traffic director. I would have held him up Texas Ranger style, had I a pair of six shooters at my disposal. As was, I accosted him as a completely fed up Colorado hippie.

Which is Texas Ranger intimidating and then some.

“Can you please” I chewed on the word “tell me how to get to Terminal C? Please?”

“Walk this direction. Get on bus B for Terminal C.”

“Bus B for Terminal C?” I repeated after him in incredulous horror. “I have to take a bus and go through security all over again?”

“Yea.”

As I couldn’t conjure the words “thank-you” past my dry, constricted throat, I didn’t bother with them. I spun on my indignant heels and wheels and went to search for this “Bus B.” After a short walk, I glanced a humble, unobtrusive sign noting the stops of Bus A and Bus B. Finally! On the right track. I glanced at my watch. And I still have an hour and a half. Okay. Making it happen. Doing fine.

Bus A came and went. A few minutes later, Bus B slowed to a stop. As the rest of the passengers piled in, I made sure to ask the driver, “this bus goes to Terminal C?”

“Yea.”

“Grand! Thanks so much!” my throat felt much better as I slid into my seat. Looking around, I saw those characters in real life I’d only imagined in plays. The scary, hunched over mama figure. The outgoing black guy with sagging pants, sitting up front and chatting up the driver. The sketchy homeless looking fellow gracing the seat behind me. Bus passengers seem to adhere to the aforementioned oath of silence, as all but the talkative fellow up front were deathly quiet. In the quiet, all my preconceptions about New York and New Yorkers screamed loudly in my ears and I gripped my bags fiercely and looked about for surreptitious pick-pockets.

Which seemed to make me blend in with the motely crew, if nothing else was accomplished by my unfounded anxiety.

The Bus screeched to a halt at Terminal D.

“Last stop, everyone off!”

“Thanks, man,” the chatty fellow ambled out and the rest of the passengers took the streets. I remained in my seat, fingers growing white around my luggage.

“I thought this bus went to Terminal C.”

“Ya gotta take the next bus, kid. The one behind ya.”

Feeling mightily betrayed, I vacated the disappointing bus and set my sights upon the one behind. The one that really would get me to elusive Terminal C.

“This bus go to Terminal C?” I asked the driver manning Bus A.

“Yea.”

“Terminal C?” Time was ticking away, and I was not about to be misled again.

“Yea.”  

I trundled in and sat down. The bus revved its engines and deposited me at Terminal C.

“Thank-GOD,” I praised the good lord as I finally saw my terminal. I felt like dropping my bags and doing a jig, but I got in line to go through security instead. The employee standing near the entrance didn’t so much as glance at me as I approached, so I assumed I could just go ahead. I’d navigated my way past a few of the switchbacks when I heard her yell, “You need to show me your ticket.”

“One second,” I shouted apologetically as I rushed through the switchbacks to hand her my ticket.  She squinted at it for a second. “Huh,” she handed it back to me and I started to stuff it into an accessible pocket in my bag. “Don’t put it away, you’re gonna need that!” she screeched.

“One second,” I mumbled in irritation and pulled the ticket and passport out again.

The rest of security went without a hitch, although the body scanning business is a bit perturbing. Once through, I found my gate in a few minutes and set about getting something to drink. I settled on a ginseng energy drink (that cost a whopping 3.90), and claimed a seat near my gate to relax and enjoy my flavorless, costly beverage. I doodled as I waited, and an outgoing fellow next to me commented on my micron pens, saying how much he appreciated a fine point. We started chatting, and I found out he was a well-travelled chap, so I gifted him with a business card and he gifted me with suggestions of places to visit.

The conversation helped my nerves relax and the energy drink helped my fried brain revive. I was ready for the next flight. The entire hour of it.

My row-mate from New York to Philadelphia was a friendly young man from Dallas who had spent a couple of days in New York on business. When one is on ginseng energy drink, all oaths are forgotten. Most common decency, too. I do believe I talked that poor boy’s ears right off, painting my dreams for him with passionate fervor for the course of the hour. Such fervor that nearby passengers cast me uncomfortable looks and donned their headphones.

I hate it when that happens. I dislike leaving a conversation and thinking, “Geez... he knows just about everything there is to know about me, and... wait... WAIT... I DO remember his name.”

-To be continued