*written at Houston Hobby Airport on what seems to be an endless layover
It happened again. My 3:15pm flight out of Memphis was delayed due to the airline deeming it important to check tires (I’m totally OK with that) and 75 minutes after my flight was scheduled to depart, I was called up to the gate because it was clear I’d never make my connection, so I was put on the last flight out of Houston at 10:10pm. Yet again. Stranded at the airport…
But this isn’t the biggest problem in the world and it doesn’t make me full of rage. I mean, rage is just so tacky. In an admirable attempt to achieve pure zen-like consciousness (admire me, dammit!), I’ve resigned myself to the fact that any flight between New Orleans and another city that in actuality would only be a 1 hour flight or less but is so much more than that because there are no direct flights, is going to involve an entire day of traveling. I should be arriving to some awesome place where English is not the first language and exotic fruits await me. Instead, I’m arriving in another small city in the Deep South. Wait, wait– zen. Right.
I love New Orleans almost as much as I love my cats. The city is in my soul like no other, with the possible exception of my home, NYC. But. It can be such a bitch to get in and out of, and I’m trying to do this sometimes twice a week. It can be a bit much, but what’s a girl to do? I can blame the airlines instead. At their best, they all pretty much suck. I suppose I need to get on it after posting this and give Southwest yet another piece of my mind so I can at least get a travel voucher out of this inconvenience. My second, mind you, in less than 6 weeks.
I can create a brief airport wish list. Here’s mine so far: a single healthy eating option for vegan travelers. A gym. A cat cafe. A library. A movie theater. More outlets. Chic lounge areas for the masses.
This evening I’m stuck in Houston Hobby for practically four hours where not a single thing I’ve listed above is a viable option. I’m hungry as hell, having devoured my last protein bar while in Memphis that was supposed to be a late afternoon snack before a reasonable 8:30pm dinner. Now, my flight departs at 10:10 and I arrive home at 11. So much for all attempts at being zen. I fear anyone who has to personally deal with me after I land and I apologize in advance.
Wouldn’t be cool if I could run on a treadmill, punch a bag and then, after a great shower that’s also located in a comfy locker room at the airport, go pet cats? After that, I could get vegan pho with extra tofu and be all in a good mood to board my plane. Oh but no. Airports have to just suck, don’t they?
I will concede that some are not as bad as others. I just seem to never get to the good ones because I can’t think of a single time when I’ve wanted to actually go back to one the way I do, say, particular hotels, restaurants or haunted lounges in the cities that I visit. It’s hard to get that excited about yet another Hudson News that sells pistachios and an array of magazines available for purchase, designed to make us ladies feel bad about ourselves because we’re too fat/old/ugly or have jobs that are seriously uncool. I’m trying to love airports these days as I see them more often I do my backyard, but it’s really fucking hard. Silver lining? I’m not at my doctor’s office, but at least there the magazines are free to browse.
Here I sit, with a soy latte for dinner (protein), making notes to self so that I don’t do stupid things on my next voyage to Canada in 4 days, like think an hour is enough time to allow to get through Customs… or forget to add an international data plan to my phone or call my credit card company even though it’s a “travel card” and they’re fully aware that I travel as much as I do. It’s so fun getting your card rejected on your cab ride to the hotel from the airport at Midnight.