I’ve had my fair share of traveling woes. I've grown to expect that it comes with the territory. I no longer worry that something is going to go wrong, I just wonder when.
I braced myself for the worst when we flew into the Detroit airport on our way to Ft. Lauderdale, a little later than expected because of a delayed flight. I discovered the last morsels of shock still nestled in my psyche from a night in that particular airport twenty years ago. A snowstorm stranded hundreds. Hotels and rental cars had long since been spoken for. Elderly people slept on benches. The attendants at the ticket counter were notoriously unhelpful as if it were the fault of the traveler to be in such a predicament. Fortunately though, our little family unit made it through Detroit without a scratch, and I realized that I could let go of my previous horror. Perhaps, after all, the Detroit airport is not some form of hell.
Of course, I have to claim responsibility for many of my traveling blunders. Misreading departure times, locking keys in the car, miscalculating the mileage on backpacking trips have been just a few of the small mistakes with inconvenient consequences.
Once, my plane to Europe pulled away from the gate as I ran to the door breathless, the result of underestimating Atlanta traffic on a Friday afternoon while drinking beers with an old friend. My brother was in Amsterdam waiting on me. I had no idea how to contact him. He was also running late when he came to greet me at the airport. In his personal nightmare of losing his sister, he finally convinced the airline employee to disclose my whereabouts, relieved that he did not have to call our father in ignorance of my safety.
Even as a half responsible adult, the best of planning does not secure our way completely. I’ve learned to remain exceedingly glad when the path is smooth. And when a bump springs up, I remind myself that hard times in travel don’t usually last long, and there is a price for all things. If that means I have to deal with a few moments of inconvenience in a journey well sought, well, then I buck up and ride the wave.
All in all, I was feeling pretty smug with the flow of our last trip to the Bahamas. We had many variables, and they were all falling into place without any kinks. And then we touched ground in Seattle, weary with a full day of twelve travel hours behind us. Pearl’s booster seat didn’t make it to baggage claim, causing us to miss our initial shuttle to the parking lot. After waiting a ridiculously long time for the shuttle to return, I started feeling regretful about always going with the cheapest option. And then we finally arrived to the Sea-Tac Value Inn to hear the news that our key was nowhere to be found. Furthermore, they were not sure which van was ours. Or even if it was on the lot. As Pearl started getting teary about our missing van, Joey and I immediately switched gears from our negative outlook, assuring her that the van would be found. And it was, but not the key, our only key. We have no spare. So, I changed the girls into pajamas and started reading "Lightfoot the Deer," while Joey joined in the search.
As the minutes and then hours ticked by, we started talking to managers on the phone, with no success. No one seemed interested in efficiently helping with our situation. We were offered a hotel room. But we did not want a hotel room, especially after watching crack heads solicit prostitution in the hotel lobby. And besides, Joey had just been called to return to work the next morning, a day earlier than expected. We needed to get to Bellingham, so he could get his next set of baggage in order.
Eventually, Juniper fell asleep in my arms and Pearl crashed out on our suitcases with a booster seat as her pillow. At that point, we decided to take matters into our own hands. Joey returned to the airport for a rental car, astounded that the manager would not agree to pay for it. But after spending three hours in that lobby, we finally got some wheels to carry us home.
I fully expected the head manager to call in the morning with extreme apologies and comforting words that the rental car would be paid for. Oh yes, and of course, that the key had been found. But no, I had to call and call again. It was not until mid-day that I got the beginning of some answers, but nothing was certain yet. By the following day, my inquiries brought positive news. The keys were found and we would be reimbursed for the rental car, the gas, and our parking. But I still had to drive back to Seattle to get the darn thing.
The whole mess was an unfortunate experience. As I sat in that hotel lobby holding Juniper in my arms, waiting on Joey to return with the rental car, my butt ached and I lost feeling in my foot. I would close my weary eyes and mentally transport myself back to the Bahamas to wrap myself in turquoise water and blow in the breeze with coconut palms. People came and went. Some offered help. Others chose to avert their glances. “This too shall pass,” I continued to repeat to myself. And it did.
And that is why I live a privileged life, because my pain is not constant. I luckily do not know what it means to sell my body for drugs. I do not have to leave my family and community to work illegally in another country. I do not deal with assholes on a daily basis. I can come. I can go. I can live in a peaceful community and eat food that nourishes my body. I can share the joy of an afternoon in the woods with my daughters. I can choose how and where I want to live. I can travel to warm, distant places. I know what it is to love and be loved. Yes, I am privileged. And sometimes, it takes my butt going numb on the floor of a crackpot hotel to really put things in perspective and help me appreciate the treasure that is my life.
Thanks to Miriah Davis for the picture of Juniper, Lusa, and me by Whatcom Creek, a couple of years ago.
