Our Trip to Chicago, via Hell
The trip to Chicago had been planned for some time, to coincide with R.E.M.'s performance at the United Center. The only sticking point was that Shelley had to teach on Friday, so we would have to get an afternoon flight to make the show. I had shrewdly done that weeks before even buying the tickets for the concert, so confident was I that we would get them. And in fact, being fan club members, we were able to secure 14th row center seats. Pretty sweet. I went nuts and bought four of them. Friends in Chicago said they'd be glad to lighten their wallets and join the fun. Just in case anything happened to delay the flight (HA!) I had sent one pair of tickets to my friend's office via certified mail.
So, on Friday, my eight-year-old daughter, Joni and I drove - well, I did most of the driving - to my wife, Shelley's designated pick-up point. The three of us arrived at the Cleveland airport in plenty of time and, after shuffling through security at a glacial pace and placing all of our belongings into bus pans, we still had a good hour before the flight's scheduled departure. Thinking ahead, we had brought only carry-on luggage. We had our toiletries tucked away perfectly. We were clicking like a machine. It had been a long afternoon for me, or so I claimed, so I went to the bar and had a tall one. I thought about having two - after all, I wouldn't be driving - but thought better of it. As I walked back to the gate, something caught my eye. Instead of 4:35, the flight was now scheduled to depart at 6:25. "They" would never say whether it was weather-related. "Air traffic at O'Hare," they said. Oh, this is good. They also said that the time could shift either way. Show of hands: How many of you have seen a delayed flight's departure time change for the better. (crickets.) I thought so. So, we went over what our situation was. We would still gain an hour and arrive at O'Hare by about 7:00. There were two opening bands, The National (new to both of us) and Modest Mouse (liked by both of us). So we still had plenty of time to get to the show to see R.E.M, who we calculated wouldn't go onstage until 9:00 at the very earliest. So we sat and waited, nervous as hell, for the clock to strike 6:25, so that we could stop worrying. We made phone calls to alert our people in Chicago of the situation and make new arrangements. Worry, worry, worry. Tick tick tick. By 6:00 I was watching Continental planes roll up, attempting to will each to become attached to the jetway at our gate. It was no use. I have ZERO telekinetic powers. No planes were coming our way, but still, the sign said 6:25, and the sign, after all, is the word of God, so we still had little reason to think anything was up, until we heard the woman who had drawn the shortest straw announce that flight yadayada to Chicago "has been cancelled. We will try to . . . " and the rest was just a blur. I was in denial. This could not be happening. Cancelled. But, but, . . . WHAT?! Is there another one in five minutes? Like the bus? Please? After I emerged from this haze, my, let's say, assertive side took over. "Okay, let me guess," I said to the first Continental employee who was unfortunate enough to be in my path. "We purchased non-refundable tickets, so there will be no refund, right?" I don't know about you, but I always figured that meant you couldn't simply change your mind. It seems to me that if the plane is snatched out from under you, . . . well, this was going nowhere. So I got off a shot across the bow: "Seems to me if they're non-refundable tickets, it ought to be a non-cancelable flight," and then skulked off and stood in one of the lines for the rabble, of which I am a card-carrying member. When we arrived at the desk, we explained the situation we were in, and why we should qualify as an exception to the rule. I wasn't nearly as entertaining, I'm sure, as Albert Brooks' was in his attempt to get his nest egg back in "Lost in America," but hey, he was fighting for his nest egg. I was fighting for much, much less. The Continental employee threw us THIS bone: "I have two tickets tonight at 8:15." I looked at her, stunned that this would be an offer they would make to three people. "Okay, well the earliest I can get all three of you there is tomorrow morning." I asked her why on EARTH we would go to Chicago for a day. We simply wanted someone ELSE to pay for at least some of this damage. I'm sure it wasn't pretty to watch. I'd hate to have to see it replayed, but my whining got us this far: "Well, I can put in a Refund Request." Okay, now we're getting somewhere.
I relaxed my shoulders a bit as the woman processed this Refund Request, and then I looked over at Joni, who was leaning against the window overlooking the runways - those wonderful runways. I walked to her and as I neared I saw a look of abject disappointment on her face. She couldn't have cared less about Michael Stipe, but she was looking forward to visiting the American Girl store. And, well, GOING somewhere. Earlier that day she and I changed some of her piggy bank coins into paper money so that she could make a purchase all by herself. She was very excited. And here was her dad, happy enough to just stay home. So I told her we'd have a special day tomorrow. "Cedar Point?" she asked sweetly, going for the kill. I balked, and pretended there must be business to attend to at the desk. Okay, so the RR has been processed, and here we go, dragging our little carry on bags back down the people movers in the opposite direction we'd just come from. We were, to a man, dumbstruck. It was then that my heart told my mouth to say something my brain was not nimble enough to stop. "Well, we could still drive there if you want to, I guess."
So we did. We loaded the Jeep back up, exited Long Term Parking, and headed west, listening to R.E.M.'s latest, "Accelerate," along the way. But alas, no matter how fast we went, we would not arrive before the roadies were having breakfast.
Of course, there would be rain in Indiana. (I think the turnpike commission has their own cloud.) Of course, we would be chattering like rubes about the number of tolls. Of course, there was a lot of traffic in Chicago. And, of course, we got a little lost downtown, but we got to our hotel at 12:30 am, local time. Finally, we got our room and fell into a deep coma.
So, on Friday, my eight-year-old daughter, Joni and I drove - well, I did most of the driving - to my wife, Shelley's designated pick-up point. The three of us arrived at the Cleveland airport in plenty of time and, after shuffling through security at a glacial pace and placing all of our belongings into bus pans, we still had a good hour before the flight's scheduled departure. Thinking ahead, we had brought only carry-on luggage. We had our toiletries tucked away perfectly. We were clicking like a machine. It had been a long afternoon for me, or so I claimed, so I went to the bar and had a tall one. I thought about having two - after all, I wouldn't be driving - but thought better of it. As I walked back to the gate, something caught my eye. Instead of 4:35, the flight was now scheduled to depart at 6:25. "They" would never say whether it was weather-related. "Air traffic at O'Hare," they said. Oh, this is good. They also said that the time could shift either way. Show of hands: How many of you have seen a delayed flight's departure time change for the better. (crickets.) I thought so. So, we went over what our situation was. We would still gain an hour and arrive at O'Hare by about 7:00. There were two opening bands, The National (new to both of us) and Modest Mouse (liked by both of us). So we still had plenty of time to get to the show to see R.E.M, who we calculated wouldn't go onstage until 9:00 at the very earliest. So we sat and waited, nervous as hell, for the clock to strike 6:25, so that we could stop worrying. We made phone calls to alert our people in Chicago of the situation and make new arrangements. Worry, worry, worry. Tick tick tick. By 6:00 I was watching Continental planes roll up, attempting to will each to become attached to the jetway at our gate. It was no use. I have ZERO telekinetic powers. No planes were coming our way, but still, the sign said 6:25, and the sign, after all, is the word of God, so we still had little reason to think anything was up, until we heard the woman who had drawn the shortest straw announce that flight yadayada to Chicago "has been cancelled. We will try to . . . " and the rest was just a blur. I was in denial. This could not be happening. Cancelled. But, but, . . . WHAT?! Is there another one in five minutes? Like the bus? Please? After I emerged from this haze, my, let's say, assertive side took over. "Okay, let me guess," I said to the first Continental employee who was unfortunate enough to be in my path. "We purchased non-refundable tickets, so there will be no refund, right?" I don't know about you, but I always figured that meant you couldn't simply change your mind. It seems to me that if the plane is snatched out from under you, . . . well, this was going nowhere. So I got off a shot across the bow: "Seems to me if they're non-refundable tickets, it ought to be a non-cancelable flight," and then skulked off and stood in one of the lines for the rabble, of which I am a card-carrying member. When we arrived at the desk, we explained the situation we were in, and why we should qualify as an exception to the rule. I wasn't nearly as entertaining, I'm sure, as Albert Brooks' was in his attempt to get his nest egg back in "Lost in America," but hey, he was fighting for his nest egg. I was fighting for much, much less. The Continental employee threw us THIS bone: "I have two tickets tonight at 8:15." I looked at her, stunned that this would be an offer they would make to three people. "Okay, well the earliest I can get all three of you there is tomorrow morning." I asked her why on EARTH we would go to Chicago for a day. We simply wanted someone ELSE to pay for at least some of this damage. I'm sure it wasn't pretty to watch. I'd hate to have to see it replayed, but my whining got us this far: "Well, I can put in a Refund Request." Okay, now we're getting somewhere.
I relaxed my shoulders a bit as the woman processed this Refund Request, and then I looked over at Joni, who was leaning against the window overlooking the runways - those wonderful runways. I walked to her and as I neared I saw a look of abject disappointment on her face. She couldn't have cared less about Michael Stipe, but she was looking forward to visiting the American Girl store. And, well, GOING somewhere. Earlier that day she and I changed some of her piggy bank coins into paper money so that she could make a purchase all by herself. She was very excited. And here was her dad, happy enough to just stay home. So I told her we'd have a special day tomorrow. "Cedar Point?" she asked sweetly, going for the kill. I balked, and pretended there must be business to attend to at the desk. Okay, so the RR has been processed, and here we go, dragging our little carry on bags back down the people movers in the opposite direction we'd just come from. We were, to a man, dumbstruck. It was then that my heart told my mouth to say something my brain was not nimble enough to stop. "Well, we could still drive there if you want to, I guess."
So we did. We loaded the Jeep back up, exited Long Term Parking, and headed west, listening to R.E.M.'s latest, "Accelerate," along the way. But alas, no matter how fast we went, we would not arrive before the roadies were having breakfast.
Of course, there would be rain in Indiana. (I think the turnpike commission has their own cloud.) Of course, we would be chattering like rubes about the number of tolls. Of course, there was a lot of traffic in Chicago. And, of course, we got a little lost downtown, but we got to our hotel at 12:30 am, local time. Finally, we got our room and fell into a deep coma.
Eat it, Continental!
We had a great time in Chicago. We did everything we had planned to do, apart from the one event that had been the primary reason we had gone in the first place.
We had a great time in Chicago. We did everything we had planned to do, apart from the one event that had been the primary reason we had gone in the first place.
There are a couple of things I wonder about since "the incident." First, I wonder if, Friday night, Michael Stipe saw our empty seats and wondered what had become of "us." More likely, through the harsh lights, he only saw the throng. I also wonder if he remembers when $170 was a lot of money.
Dang.
Labels: #remunited, flying, travel
posted by Midlife Man at 7:15 PM
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