I’m currently sitting at the home of Ron and Brenda Egge in Redmond, Washington. Yesterday, I awoke in a brightly colored bed upstairs. This morning, however, I awoke in my own bed in Santa Barbara, California. I’m crazy.
This all started Sunday around 2:30 in the afternoon. My mother and I had a plane departing SeaTac at 9:45am on Monday, both of us intending on being inside when it took off. Yet it was at 2:30 when Eric Hawkins, a young brother worker, mentioned that it was too bad I wasn’t going to be around next week. From this, I made him reword it to an explicit invitation, and words sprouted wings of ideas from there.
Sunday evening was spent trying to figure out the possibility of changing the return date, a prospect that turned out to be more than the original ticket cost. That shot down the hope. The next idea was to volunteer to get bumped, not board the flight, and use the free ticket to fly home. This was our great idea.
Understanding that we were working on a thread of hope that depended solely on the flight being overbooked, I resigned myself to the fact that I would not be attending a second convention. When we checked our bags, we asked the ticket agent about other reservation change options, nothing working out. After going through TSA, we boarded the tram and went to wait at our gate to see if they needed to kick people off.
During the short tram ride, my mother’s light bulb went off above her head. Her youngest, most charming, and most currently unmarried sister is a flight attendant for United and often has extra buddy passes. When we were waiting at the gate, my mother decided to call her to see if there were any extra options. Since it was 8:30am and Carla, although attractive, is not a morning person, my mother was fearing waking her up. Alas, she was in Hawaii, meaning it was 5:30am.
Luckily, since they are sisters, my mother was able to understand whatever frog language Carla was speaking and informed me that it was a definite possibility. We eventually learned that it was too late to get my bag off the flight, so we just went home and Carla would call me when she got back to LA, around 11:30pm.
Sadly, neither of our flights were overbooked, so we managed to get home as planned. Never in my life have I wanted more desperately to get off of a plane.
We arrived at home at 4:40pm. Mother and I were both exhausted, so the rest of the day was spent casually sitting around or in the hot tub. Around 10:30, I decided to unpack my bag, since it was mostly full of dirty laundry anyway.
At 11:30 or so, my most artistic aunt called me. We went over the options and soon decided that the best flight plan was from Santa Barbara to Los Angeles at 8:45am and from Los Angeles to Seattle at 11am. Once that was decided (around midnight), I started repacking my bag. I think I didn’t end up going to sleep until past 1am.
I woke up at 6am and explained the situation to my father. Keep in mind that everyone else was pretty much clueless as to my plans thus far. The most informed only knew that I would be trying to get on a flight sometime before Wednesday night, a venture that would be perhaps unsuccessful. Alas, I had to inform my father that he would need to take me to the airport in an hour because I had a ticket waiting for me.
A packed bag and six goodbyes later, I was standing at the Santa Barbara airport, waiting to pass through TSA once again. For some reason or another, my name was flagged and I had to go through a detailed search. The guy was very professional and explained the process very well. He had to pat me down then go through all of my belongings. Unfortunately for him, I had two carry ons, both of which were packed full. He diligently went through each item, testing everything with those strange little wipes.
He managed to break his professionalism when he came to my laptop. Yes, it’s so awesome, even the TSA guys have to comment on it. He found a bottle of hand sanitizer I forgot I keep in my bag, but let it slide with a kind hint.
He opened up my next bag to find that it was my trumpet. Apparently, he used to play the trumpet in high school, so he warmed up quickly. I took this opportunity to let him know I have a bottle of valve oil I “forgot” (read: didn’t care) to put in a plastic bag. He found it, and since it was “potentially dangerous,” had to get his supervisor to approve it. The eventual verdict was, “If you’re okay with it, I’m okay with it.” All trumpet players are okay with valve oil.
Both the plane and the flight time were small, giving me plenty of space to fly standby. The ticket agent already checked me in when she handed me my boarding pass, so I just got to walk on the plane. It was a quick jaunt to Los Angeles, then a quest for a new seat.
I spent the 2 hours between the flights mostly on the phone. My incredibly tan, yet still healthy skinned aunt checked the loads on the flight and they seemed questionable. I continued the conversation for quite some time, then eventually let her help the housekeeper clean her house. Not too long after that, I heard the ticket agent call my name, the purpose being to give me a ticket. I was in.
Not only was I in, but I was in first class. It was my first first class experience, so I was like a kid in a candy store trying to act like an adult for whom candy stores are no big thing. I was thoroughly impressed by the size of the seats, their reclinability, and their comfort. I was equally impressed by the warmed nut assortment, the infinite free drinks, and the personal hot pizzas. I very much appreciated the tablecloths on the tray tables, the metal flatware, and the lemon scented, warmed moist hand towels. And of course, I enjoyed the thin (but warm) United Airlines blanket which I kept as a souvenir.
I arrived in Seattle at 1:30pm. I claimed by bag and went to find a way to the Egge residence. Since it was an inconvenience to them to pick me up, I got in a shuttle to their house, essentially a group taxi. I was thoroughly unimpressed.
I think the driver was new at the job. He had all the classic signs of n00bism—the urgent explanations for why things were taking so long, the uncontrollable forehead sweat when they did. This, coupled by the very talkative and rather unintelligent elderly lady got on my nerves.
There were two of us getting off at Redmond and the old lady at Bellevue. Since Bellevue was on the way, we went to Redmond first. The driver was using a GPS system that was very friendly and very inefficient. We finally got to the first apartment complex rather late and dropped off the first girl. My fare was $41, so judging by her $6 tip, I estimated that I should do the same. That is, until he got lost in the apartment parking lot. Yes, the driver got lost in a parking lot and spent 10 minutes trying to get out. In his defense, there were only two exits in a large lot, but still, he couldn’t remember how he got in. His 15% tip turned into 10%.
When I made my reservation, I had the lady go ahead and swipe my card. When I got ready to sign, she informed me that I sign when I reach the destination. I assumed this was so the cardholder could add an appropriate tip. When we reached my destination, I pulled out the receipt and noticed the bottom bold print that says,
For your protection, we will ask
for your signature at the end of
each trip.
The sweaty driver pulled my bags out and thanked me. When he asked how I would like to pay, I explained that the lady already swiped my card. He acknowledged this by wishing me a good day. I clarified the end of our interaction by saying, “Is that it?” to which he replied in the affirmative. Since I was happy to get out of the tip obligation, I agreed without signing anything. I don’t know where this falls in the “morals” category.
In short, flying is so much better than driving. And for some reason, I flew to Santa Barbara to change clothes and sit in a hot tub.
Yeah, that’s just how I roll.
