Sunday, February 03, 2008

fear and loathing in chicago, part 2

I arrived at O'Hare in good spirits. I had successfully navigated the Chicago Transit Authority system, found my hotel, found Microsoft's office, and hadn't been late for anything. My heels were a mess, but since I was wearing my tennis shoes and had known not to change my socks (which would have opened up the wounds), the bleeding had stopped, and they didn't really hurt at all.

Since I hadn't been sure when the meeting would be done and how long it'd take me to get to the airport, I had booked the 5:35 pm flight back to Rochester. I got to O'Hare around 1:15 pm, so I decided to move up my flight. I strolled past the check-in machines and headed for the line to the agent counters.

At the entrance to the line, an airline employee was having a heated discussion with a middle-aged couple. I couldn't really tell what the argument was about other than the woman from the airline apparently thought they should be using the check-in machines instead and was being very rude about it. Being a good upper Midwesterner, I acted like nothing unusual was going on and paid no attention. After the couple moved away, I stepped past to get into the line. "WHERE do you think YOU'RE going?" yelled the airline lady. Dubbing her "Swastika Sue" in my brain ("You VILL use de machinen!"), I conjured my most innocent and bewildered expression and said, "To reschedule my flight?" "Oh," she said, all interest gone, and turned away to scan the vicinity for new victims.

Feeling fortunate that I was being allowed to speak to my airline's representatives, I waited for my turn at the counter. The line moved pretty quickly, and soon I was standing before the antithesis of Swastika Sue. I told the lady that I'd like to change my flight, and before I could even produce my ID, she was typing away. "It's a good thing you got here early," she said. "There's a storm coming, and we're trying to get you folks home before it hits. You're not going to get through Security in time to make the next flight, and they've canceled the 2:00 flight, so I'm going to book you on the 3:30 flight, okay?" I said that would be great, and she took my suitcase (which, remember, contains my coat). She then pointed out which Security checkpoint was closest to my gate, and said, "Have a safe trip!" as I headed off in that direction.

The people at the checkpoint, while not overtly friendly, were surprisingly pleasant. I was a bit concerned about taking off my tennis shoes, but there wasn't any blood in them, and nobody seemed to notice that the backs of my socks were caked with dried blood. Nonetheless, I was quite pleased that my flight was leaving from gate G1A, so I didn't have to hike down the concourse.

I found a seat and got my laptop out of my backpack. After a half hour, I still couldn't get it connected--the software said the wireless adapter was disabled, but the operating system said it was enabled. Giving up, I put it away, hoping that nobody had sent me any urgent e-mail in the last 24 hours, and got out my phone, which has Internet access, so I could at least check the weather. There was a storm approaching, but only 1-2" of snow was predicted.

I got a bit nervous when it started snowing, but as the time of the flight approached, it tapered off into nothing. I was concerned that we still didn't have a plane, and sure enough, the flight got moved back a half hour. Then, forty-five minutes. Then, an hour. As the time got later and later, my good mood ebbed away. By 5 o'clock, I was hungry, but didn't dare leave the gate because the flight was never more than 30 minutes from supposedly boarding. At 6 o'clock, the flight was moved to 7:05, so I decided I finally had enough time to head over to the restaurant next door to get a burger.

I got a soda, and while I was waiting for someone to take my order, I used my phone to check my flight status. It was canceled. I was stuck with a soda I hadn't paid for and with no waiter in sight, I couldn't jump up to dash to the gate agent to get rebooked. I figured there wasn't a whole lot I could do, so I ordered my burger and ate it, mulling over what I should do next. After I paid for the meal, I checked the departure board and headed to the gate for the next flight to Rochester--the flight I was originally supposed to be on and which hadn't left yet.

The gate agent was rather blasé about the whole thing and told me there was no way I could make it out on the next flight or the flight after that. He said he could put me on the standby list for the last flight, but I would be 9th on the list. I said it didn't sound like I'd get on that flight and asked him what I should do then. "Report to the airport at 6:30 tomorrow morning, and we'll see if we can get you on a flight."

I wandered away from the gate, thinking furiously. I could ask to be booked on a flight to Minneapolis and rent a car there, but I figured plenty of other people had probably already done that and I didn't hold out much hope of getting a seat. I could get a hotel room, but I would have to find some place to buy my special contact solution, which is the only one to which I'm not allergic, and spend the good part of a third day in my jeans and the second day in the rest of my sweaty clothes--while they "saw" if they could find me a flight. I could rent a car, but I had no idea how much that would cost or whether my company would reimburse me for it. Oh, and Dave was gone, so there was nobody to feed my cats.

I wandered around the baggage level for awhile before I determined that the terminal didn't have any car rental counters. My wireless connection was hosed, so I couldn't hop online like I had done the last time my flight was canceled. I tried calling Dave to ask his advice, but he didn't have cell reception where he was at. Finally, I sat down to have a good think.

I decided that I was, dammit, wide awake and pissed off enough to make the drive home, and that a rental car had to be about the same price as a hotel room. It didn't really matter if the company wouldn't pay for the car--I was damn well going to feed my cats and sleep in my own bed. True, there had been a storm that afternoon, but it had only dropped about an inch of snow, and they would surely have that cleared away by the time I got there. Now I had to figure out a way to rent a car.

So, I called Ben, and after a period of what was probably incoherent ranting, I managed to ask him to look up the 800 number for Hertz. I called Hertz and got a quote for around $120. I could find a hotel around O'Hare for less than that--not a nice hotel, but one where I'd have the opportunity of meeting people from other (street) walks of life--but I decided to damn the torpedoes.

Twenty minutes later, I was getting off the shuttle at Hertz. Within sort order, I had the keys to a Chevy Malibu and was heading to the parking ramp. Now the upside of the wool sweater was manifesting itself--it was warm enough to make up for my lack of a coat.

I was pleased with myself for making a command decision and taking charge of my situation. It was now 7 pm. Some time between midnight and 1 am, I'd be walking into my house to find my relieved cats and my bed. I settled in for a long drive and headed off to find I-90, glad my ordeal was over. (Do I really have to tell you again how to construct the irony?)

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