Boston Travelin'

Yesterday, Erin and I traveled separately by plane to Boston. I contend that this was due to me trying to use up some neglected frequent flyer miles, but Erin contends that this was an effort to dodge leaving Grant potentially parentless in the event of a not uneventful flight.

Either way, I arrived at the airport in Indy yesterday afternoon. As I waited for my flight to Chicago (stupid frequent flyer miles robbed me of a non-stop trip), I observed a somewhat disheveled man in the gate area. He appeared to be either high or drunk, and his beard led me to believe that he was either homeless or a college professor. It's frequently a difficult call.

As I boarded the aircraft and took my seat, I watched this gentleman stumble my direction, and as fate would ALWAYS have it, into the seat next to mine. He inquired as to my travel plans, and I told him I was headed for Boston. He was headed to Portland, Oregon, and he proceeded to launch into a lengthy discussion of baseball, of which I have little interest. I heard about him being a Dodgers fan as a kid, and I heard how he "divorced" that team at some point in the 80's. He asked me my feelings on the Sox, and I politely informed him that I was wearing a pair.

As we flew toward Chicago, he pointed out non-obvious things like farm fields and roads below us. Upon entering Chicago's air space, I was delighted when he showed me the Sears Tower and Lake Michigan, all with a bit of vodka on his breath. As we gathered our things to depart the aircraft, he said something about the Patriots getting beat. I replied, "Yeah, I hope so" at which point he started accusing me of being a lousy New England fan.

"No, actually I'm an Indianapolis Colts fan."
"Oh, I thought you were from Boston."
"Nope, sorry. Indy born and raised."
"Huh...how did I mess that up?"

Could be the liquor, sir.

I deplaned in Chicago for a brief stop. While awaiting my connection to Boston, I watched a well dressed woman approach the gate agent.

"I just got dripped on."

Sure enough, there was a very small bit of moisture on her shoulder. I turned toward the ceiling and noted that it was badly water damaged, but only appeared to be leaking a small amount, unfortunately over this woman's suede top. The gate agent made my list of favorite people. She was probably in her early 30's and possessed the usual flair of a public servant in the Windy City.

"Welcome to da city uh Chicago. Richaahd Daley's da mayuh."
"Will the airline pay for my dry cleaning?"
"Ma'am, you're in da O'Hare airport, owned by the city uh Chicago. Call them. The airline ain't doin' nuttin' for ya."

The lady walked off in a huff, her suede top obviously destroyed by the teaspoonful of water dispensed by Richard Daley's personally installed leaky ceiling.

They began boarding the plane, but with the caveat that it was apparently very hot on the aircraft. The pilots were delayed in arriving, and therefore the air conditioning (or more appropriately named "big germ circulation vent") had not yet been activated.

After about 10 minutes of boarding, they advised everyone not already on the plane to wait in the gate area due to the heat. I felt sorry for the poor saps who had already boarded. I boarded after a crew member had arrived to turn on the air and began getting settled for the two hour flight to Boston.

The woman next to me in the middle seat seemed friendly enough. She was flying home from Detroit after dealing with some adoption paperwork, so we talked briefly of the rigors of adoption.

We sat for a long time waiting to move. I checked my watch, and we should have departed 15 minutes ago. This wait eventually lasted a little over an hour. I was depressed because I fell asleep at one point and awakened a half hour later to discover we hadn't yet left the gate.

As we began moving FINALLY toward the runway, the kind lady next to me retrieved a surgical mask from her purse and began adjusting it to her face. I silently wondered how I ended up next to these people. I understand that planes aren't the healthiest environment, but a surgical mask? I had a flight not long ago where I sat next to a young boy whose father informed me a half hour into the flight that his son didn't have long to live. I felt bad, but I also sat there trying to figure out how I was going to avoid inhaling for the next two hours. But I still didn't don a surgical mask.

In the end, my flight landed an hour and a half late. To make matters worse, the luggage system in Boston was on the blink, and it took me 45 minutes to retrieve my baggage. I should have beaten Erin to town by a good two hours, and instead, I walked up to her gate just as she arrived.

Now we're having a lovely time touring the historical sites and breathing in the Boston air, a refreshing mix of Dunkin' Donuts and diesel fuel. Hopefully we'll have some pictures to show tomorrow. We both miss our little dude, although I missed him a little less this afternoon when I called his grandfather to inquire about how he was doing. "Man, can that kid poop" was his response, reminding me that not everything about a baby is to be missed.