Travel: so fun

Travel is not my friend. Two of my daughters accompanied me to Salt Lake City this past week. We left on Monday. A third daughter drove us two hours to South Bend to get on the South Shore train. After a couple hours facing backwards we arrived in downtown Chicago. We walked about three blocks to the Blue Line train station. The Blue Line went to Chicago O’hare Airport in about 45 minutes. It stopped every mile or two for people to get on or off. At O’hare we walked up stairs and escalators to the floor where tickets are sold, but since we already bought tickets online, we went back down to security. After emptying our water bottles, we took them with our luggage and stood in line for a really, really long time. At last it was our turn to be photographed by security. Our photos were compared with our driver’s licenses and our luggage was x-rayed.

I got special treatment; the personal x-ray pinged my metal bra hooks and the used tissue in my pocket. A woman in a dark TSA uniform and bright blue plastic gloves had me turn around and patted those areas. Fortunately I had already taken off my necklace.

A worker asked, “Whose bag is this?” I looked; it was mine. I stood by while they reached inside with gloved hands and carefully disturbed the contents looking for whatever had alarmed the x-ray tech. It was a four ounce cup of fruit in juice. You’re not supposed to take more than three ounces of liquid medicines or toothpaste. The fruit cup didn’t even occur to me; it was part of my breakfast that I declined to eat. The worker turned it over in her hand, looked a question at the other workers, and gave it back to me.

Then we put our shoes back on and stuffed our laptops back into our bags; they insisted on x-raying those separately. The airport map online said we needed to go from Terminal One, where we entered, to Terminal Five, so we hiked through O’hare a long way, then took a train to Terminal Five. By then my feet were sore and I was tired. Our flight with Frontier Airlines was all the way at the other end of the terminal, gate 39. Every number serves a different airplane. They take turns and are fit as close together as can be, but we’re talking 747s, which are two hundred eleven feet from wingtip to wingtip. It’s a long, looonnnggg way. We happened upon an unoccupied motorized cart and asked for a ride. The driver gladly took us on, as well as an elderly lady and her companion. We held our luggage on our laps and clung to the bar in front of our seats. The electric cart did not go quickly, but progressed steadily, honking in short bursts whenever someone walked in front or too close to it. I tipped the driver when we arrived at gate 39. His vehicle was a life-saver!

Then we sat wedged in narrow seats for a three hour flight, plus 45 minutes on the tarmac while they did a last minute repair. I received a text from the airline after we landed in Salt Lake, letting me know our flight was delayed for maintenance.

The text didn’t arrive until after the flight because while we were waiting for an available runway, our cell phone and wifi connections were shut off. The rules are that cellphones must be put in “airplane mode” while onboard a flight, so the signals don’t interfere with flight instruments. I’m not sure how big a risk that is, especially since some airlines allow wifi while in flight, as long as you pay for access to the airline’s own wifi signal. But them’s the rules.

My daughter and I read a book aloud for part of the time. We dozed off. Finally the plane landed and we stiffly moved into the Salt Lake airport. Once again we found a motorized cart to take us to the exit doors. It stays inside the security cordon, while baggage claim is outside it, so we walked the last hundred yards.

My sister picked us up in my dad’s old car, a Pontiac Vibe identical to my daughter’s car except in better condition and a different color. We rode 45 minutes direct to the nursing home. My mother was dozing; it was 10 p.m. She perked right up when she saw us. We talked and hugged and then drove 15 minutes to our hotel.

The trip there took all day. On Friday evening we did the same trip in reverse, but without the trains and motorized carts. We came back to O’hare well after midnight; the carts were all plugged in, charging. The few we saw had waiting passengers resting on them, waiting for their flights. By then my feet were doubly sore and my hindquarters hurt from sitting so long. But we found an abandoned luggage cart to carry our bags; that helped tremendously.

The passenger pick-up area for Terminal 5 was two open lanes for shuttles and taxis, then a sidewalk with shelters and a couple seats, followed by four packed lanes for individual vehicles picking up people. The three lanes closest to the sidewalk were packed with stopped cars waiting. The fourth was marginally more clear, as occasionally someone got through to get away from there.

I sat with the bags. One daughter ducked in to buy some food at high airport prices. One daughter searched through traffic looking for her sister’s car. They both came back at once, one with hot toasted bagels in paper and cream cheese in sealed cups, and the other shouting, “I found her!!!” We seized our bags and dashed between stopped cars to the third or fourth lane, threw the bags into her trunk, closed it and climbed in. She drove off as soon as we were in.

The signs were not all clear but at least away from the pick-up area there wasn’t as much traffic. What there was, drove very, very fast. We got through Chicago and into Indiana as soon as my daughter could manage it, wincing when frequent faster drivers dodged around us. Then we relaxed a bit.

The last three hours were a fight to stay awake to help my driving daughter stay awake. The other two softly snored in the back seat. I slept some in the middle hour. We stopped for gas and to use the bathroom. Then I sat up, leaning on my purse so my head didn’t bounce on the window frame, while my driving daughter talked for an hour about pop music. I said things like, “Oh. Hmm. Cool. Interesting. Wow. I didn’t know that,” and tried to stay awake. Towards the end I lost the fight and slept while she blasted the music a bit louder. It was 6:30 a.m. when we arrived at home. I went to bed.

Five hours later I woke, went to the bathroom, and went back to bed; I had slept enough to be still so tired my stomach was upset. I had a fierce headache. After sleeping another couple hours my body felt better enough to stay up.

Why don’t I want to do that more often?