Earlier this month, I made arrangements to head to Reno, Nevada for a work trip. Under normal circumstances, Reno is a bit of a trek from Maine involving at least two connections. In the unfortunate circumstance of an ice storm in Dallas, it involves a little more.
Thus my story begins.
On Saturday, the day before my supposed flight, I got a message from an airline that will remain entirely nameless. It strongly encouraged me to leave early to miss the storm.
Don’t worry, this message said, we are going to reroute you through Dallas but trust us really everything is going to fine.
So I booked an extra night at my hotel in Reno, said good-bye to my kids and husband and dog, and departed. I made it to Philly with a minor delay. I had a late lunch/early dinner, talked to my sister, and tried to avoid looking at the sorts of things on my phone that make me feel like the world is going to hell.
Eventually, we took off for Dallas.
Which is where things got a little dicey.
Upon landing, I was informed no other flights were taking off. My bag? Nowhere to be found. Outside? Two inches of snow and no ground transportation.
I was thinking this would be a slight delay. A little hiccup. A minor situation but, gosh, thank goodness I got out a day early and would still make it to Reno with plenty of time.
I called my husband. He found me a hotel in the area with a shuttle.
I called the hotel and inquired about the shuttle.
“I’m sorry,” the man at the desk said. “We aren’t running the shuttle because of the snow.”
For those of you who have never been to Texas in a snowstorm – it is a little embarrassing. They do not have the appropriate equipment. The snow and ice pile up and melt and refreeze and melt and refreeze into solid trenches. People in Texas, who are good at many things, are not, as a rule, great at driving in the snow.
I did manage to find a ride share with a very nice lady who was coming into town for some sporting competition.
The next morning, I got a message indicating the airline found my bag. But of course the shuttle was still not running. The hotel gave me the number of a very nice, but very expensive car service man named Sammy. He took me back to the airport where we both quickly learned that, due to the weather, there was no ground transportation running between terminals.
A delightful feature of the Dallas airport is that a highway bisects the terminals making it impossible to get from one to another without said ground transportation services. Which made things complicated because my bag was in terminal D but my flight was in terminal C.
Sammy took me to terminal D and assured me that he would wait.
Unfortunately, there were some pretty significant staffing issues due to the two inches of snow and ice. Which meant there was nobody at the baggage claim area to retrieve my bag. I eventually found somebody who could help, brought my bag back out to Sammy, who then took me to the next terminal.
When I attempted to check in, I was told I had to get into another line because they would have to rerun a claim ticket for my bag.
In hindsight, this may have been a sign from the forces that be. A sign I dutifully ignored.
I stood in line for an hour behind a very nice woman from London who had been without her bag for two days. At the time, I thought her bag situation put my little overnight mishap into perspective.
I had recovered my bag, after all.
I was on my way to Reno, after all.
I checked my bag, went through security (again), got a coffee and a blueberry muffin, and settled in as my flight was delayed and delayed and delayed and delayed from ten thirty in the morning until seven pm. After a very complicated series of events with some real highs and lows, the flight was canceled.
Again.
I called my husband, who was becoming my travel guide. He contacted the hotel in Reno and canceled my car reservation. He booked me at a hotel near the airport that accepted the travel voucher the airline that shall remain unnamed offered up. I went down to the baggage claim to collect my luggage where I was told it would take at least twenty four hours for it to get off the plane for reasons that nobody could really state outright.
The lady in line behind me was very worried because her husband’s medicine was in her checked bag.
I was only missing clean socks and skivvies.
It put things into perspective.
I called the hotel. A lovely La Quinta near a Six Flags in Arlington. They sent a shuttle. It was filled with other aspirational Renophiles. The man at the desk offered me a toothbrush. He called me a “distressed traveller.” The restaurant accepted my twelve dollar travel voucher for food. I made friends with a man named Danny who used to do the rodeo circuit and lost a piece of his finger because of a bull, who came from a family of ropers and a lady cowboy named Leah who had seventeen dogs and a truck and knew all about horses. They told me about different styles of cowboy hats and talked a little about how people learn to do things that are hard.
I wish now that I’d paid for their beers, which were very cheap because the La Quinta understands distressed passengers are not looking to also be exploited.
At night, sheets of ice slid off the roof of the hotel. I had a hard time sleeping.
In the morning I ate a waffle shaped like the state of Texas.
I talked to the couple with the missing medicine. They had just put all three of their children through college and to celebrate had purchased a sailboat and were planning to sail around the world.
I wished them luck. They left.
After getting a message that my flight was scheduled to depart, I turned in my key. As soon as I turned in my key, I learned my flight had been cancelled and that my bag was lost. I called my husband. He found me another flight on another airline. Dallas to Denver to Reno. Leaving the next day.
I checked back into the hotel, sat in my hotel room, and pretended to work.
I was three days into the same clothes and starting to feel a little hopeless. Maybe I would never see my bag again.
At the hotel bar, a woman managed to get to Walmart. She bought a pack of six underwear and socks. She gave me a pair of each.
“I’m leaving tomorrow. I don’t need this many pairs.”
I never caught her name but it was really nice of her to give me underwear.
***
Before I left for Reno, I picked my younger son up from his after school program. He said, “Mommy, some of my friends weren’t in school.”
He said, “They are my friends from other countries.”
He said, “I’m worried about them and I’m angry.”
He said, “Is there something I can do?”
The nights I spent in the hotel room, I was thinking a little about my son, and his friends, and their parents.
***
The next day, I made it to the airport. I learned that somehow my bag ended up in Reno. The new airline got me from point A to point B with no issues. They gave me cookies and tomato juice on the plane. One of the flight attendants talked to a woman behind me who was having a panic attack. He gave her crackers and water and talked to her with kindness and the sort of assuredness a person having a panic attack needs to hear.
I was seated next to a flight attendant for the airline that shall remain nameless.
“Everything just sort of fell apart,” she said.
I suppose I agree with that statement.
***
I ended up making it to Reno, which is a delightful place.
I had some amazing Salvadoran food including Horchata de Morro, which is different from the Mexican kind that I’m used to. The guy who owned the restaurant is three generations deep in Reno. That he’s taking over the restaurant for his grandmother and auntie who do not write anything down, which makes recipes tough. I got to see a Dorothea Lange exhibit at the Nevada Museum of Art, and met Ms. Norma, who is eighty-seven and a Senior in Service at the Boys and Girls Club and a lunch monitor. I met a local muralist who is working with the kids to design something beautiful and surreal and a little weird, which I love.
The kids were kind and funny and asking all the right questions. They told me about other experiences in other schools that didn’t go so well. They told me about their hopes and dreams, about their families, and about what sort of learning they like to do most. They gave me stickers with coffee and books and said things like, “Yeah you seem like the sort of person that would be really into going to a museum.”
Which still makes me smile because I do love a museum.
I get to go back in April.
I will not ever, ever, ever check a bag again.
And there’s probably something more buried here that I’ll stumble across later.
Next week at Maine Crime Writers there will be posts by Joe Souza (Monday), Gabi Stiteler (Tuesday), special guest Sylvie Kurtz (Wednesday), Kate Flora (Thursday) and Allison Keeton (Friday).
As I write this, I’m hip-deep in edits for No Return, my first novel set in Maine. Wash, rinse, repeat. Yes, that book. Last July I took a deep breath and submitted the novel to several small presses. It was roundly rejected. Almost. One editor kindly responded that they were taking a pass–now. She suggested that the book, written in close third, wasn’t keeping with their editorial style and invited me to edit and resubmit. I popped the cork of the chilled champagne and set to work. Note to future writers. Grow the skin of a hippopotamus and celebrate every victory, even if you have to claw the cover off that cloud to get to the silver lining.
The good news is that I’m satisfied with the story. The edits are more cosmetic than substantive. I’m two weeks from the deadline, and on track. I’m going to miss it when it’s out of my hands again. Updates will follow. Now, back to Kent 4.
