Meltdown
by Susan Weber
When the universe dumps you on the streets of an unknown city, short on sleep and far from home, you’ll have your own creative answers. This is the story of mine.
I understand in slow motion that a phone across the room won’t stop ringing on its own. I kick off covers and shuffle towards the flashing light. It smells odd here, like household chemicals and something else. I lift the receiver.
“This is the front desk reminding you of your six o’clock shuttle.”
“Uh.” Could I possibly have slept all day—what time is it?
“You need to be at the front doors at six AM.”
“My flight is tonight. I don’t need a shuttle now.”
The caller lets out a lengthy sigh. Monica. I’d know her sigh anywhere. She’s not happy that, once again, I have caused her extra work. She’s blaming me for the miscalculated call, but I’ve already joined my rumpled sheets and shut my bleary eyes. Problem is, they don’t stay shut.
My brain speeds through a replay of yesterday: pre-dawn flight from Berlin, Norwegian Air’s stupendous delay out of Copenhagen. Somewhere over the Atlantic, food smells wafting through the cabin, me lowering my tray. The flight attendant checked her list. Sorry, I wasn’t on it. No meal included? Right, so I’d catch up on sleep. Queasy stomach, turbulence, angst about my connecting flight. Sleep wasn’t on the list either.
At Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood International Airport I galloped the maze that took me to logger jammed customs. Endless lines, exhausted travelers. Hours later at a JetBlue desk I was told what I already knew. My domestic flight was long gone. The agent booked me on a plane to Cleveland departing in twenty four hours.
I took my boarding pass. My legs quailed, my shoulders ached, my face devolved. I did not cry. Stuffing the pass in my pack, I walked, the terminal a muted dream. A vendor sold me Gatorade and power bar. Bite. Chew. Gulp. All at once, the world came roaring back. Garbled announcements, stale air, the madding crowd.
I’m no seasoned traveler but I have a few connections. With snot running freely, I called. Familial voices plied me with kindness; a long distance booking was made. I found myself outside the terminal, waiting for a shuttle. I should be in bed by midnight.
But should is such a slippery word. Best Western, Hyatt—every shuttle on the planet came and went but mine. This is where I got tangled up with my Comfort Suites receptionist. Monica. We had different theories on which pick-up location I was actually at. Her driver told her I was AWOL. She told me I was AWOL. A burly airport agent took my phone and told her I was standing right in front of him and she needed her driver to get over here. After several more calls on a dying phone, I was sobbing into Monica’s exasperated ear. Somehow we cleared things up. At two in the morning I crawled into bed with one plan only. Sleep.
It’s barely dawn. Awake and vaguely hungry I go down to see about breakfast. The coffee maker is useless. Honestly, so am I. Back in my room I wolf down grapefruit wedges, fried egg, self brewed awful coffee. I wonder what I’ll do all day. The hotel plans to kick me out at noon.
When I checked in I asked Monica if I could walk to the coast from here. She gave me her severest you are a lunatic look and said, “No way. Unless you like to walk.” Now, over yogurt, I take out my phone and find a route to the beach. I’m mad at Monica for wrecking my sleep. I’m mad at Norwegian Air for stranding me in a hotel that, by the looks of it, doesn’t own a vacuum cleaner. I’m mad at myself because I’m not home yet, the one place I long to be. Have I not longed hard enough? The way I see it, the airlines have robbed me of a whole day—unless I claim it for myself. The city boasts fantastic beaches. What’s to keep me from hiking four miles each way to the coast and back?
Nothing at all. Not good sense, not risk aversion, not a hint of self-awareness. Monica and the Scandinavians have seen to all that. Uber, Starbucks, or lying low in the hotel lounge—none of this occurs to me. Spite and stupidity are all I’ve got. I’m about to build a carpe diem. Watch me seize my day.
Photo Susan Weber CC BY-SA 4.0