Hysteria, Fear and Boredom: A Three Part Series on Travel

Part One: Getting out of the House

He-e-e-ey, Guh Mawnin!

The driver, a pleasant fellow, obviously feels pretty good about uttering these words- clearly he has done this before at odd hours.

Whassup the toll taker automatically mumbles back. His face is slack, his eyes semi-dead.

The whassup is not a question as the toll collector does not give a damn about what actually is “up” at 6:00 a.m. on a dark, chilly autumn morning while a stream of zombie driven vehicles jockey thru the moat leading to JFK; at this hour there is not even the threat of real light and the world sleeps.

In a weird way I totally understand the driver’s cheery if misplaced attempt to keep himself awake at dawn. But will he succeed. . . . I decide not to think on this further.

As usual we’ve booked one of the earlier flights to avoid getting stuck in the LA rush hour, a snaking thing of despair that goes on pretty much 24/7 but oddly offers a brief break between noon and 1:00 p.m. With the three hour time difference, by landing at 11:00 you have a small chance of making it to your destination without experiencing the lingering and deleterious effects of traffic nervous breakdown. . . .  It’s a tiny though strangely merciful window of time.

 

An 8:00 a.m. flight sounds so civilized when you first book! It does! At least it’s not the 7:00 a.m. you say to yourself smugly. The truth of course points to a 4:45 a.m. wake up call consisting of horrific high pitched bleeps coming from your beastly little phone. By the time you’re lugging your carry on and wheelie to security you’re ready to kill in a sleepy, dopey, somnambulist sort of way, while at the same time forced to prove you’re a normal citizen and not a terrorist by exuding extreme pleasantness and calm as you’re full-body x-rayed and patted down.

But all that is the easy part. The real horror of course has already occurred- that of getting out of the house (and no, it does not depend on how early or late you’ve packed, because between then and now there will have been at least several “emergencies”- think ingrown toenail for example, requiring painful encounter with the spurious science of podiatry the day before the trip- yes, the toenail that suddenly rules your every thought!). Then there’s the obligatory ritual of repacking, a ceremony that can take place the night before and stretch into the very morning you alight, if only as a symbolic gesture in which you banish then repatriate some stuff.

Finally, there’s the securing of a taxi, either by attempting to hail one and hoping the guy is fully conscious at dawn, or calling for one- an experience with its own set of abuses and a process that frequently can be more daunting than being 38,000 feet aloft during turbulence while thinking about the last plane that went down.

The car service dispatcher- if you go that route- often sounds like an especially irritated member of a teenage street gang combined with a vague intimation of Mafioso retribution. I usually find this somewhat comforting however as the terrible, angry sounds the dispatcher emits in between telling you to hold on somehow assure me that the lucky, chosen driver actually will be there as grudgingly promised. And in truth this beats grappling with some call center in northern Wyoming where all they really want is to get their sticky fingers on your credit card; local service is cash and carry all the way!

Lastly, need I remind that “Uber” with that intimidating umlat over the u that nobody can pronounce quite correctly, and its demand- nay, command!-  that you text really does have a whiff of mind control. . . .

(Next week part two: Up, Up and Away!)