Arrived Alive, O!

I only slept to 12:30 this morning. Not sure it was excitement – more like I was afraid the alarm wouldn’t go off at 2:30. I hadn’t planned to take a shower, but this meant I could take one. It helped fight the headache I felt coming on.

Got to the airport on time. Bless you, Charis, for getting up early. If I ever have to make that commute, I want to be on the road at 3am every time.

I remembered the American Airlines agents last time I made the trip were less than friendly. The one on duty this time had a great bark – I wouldn’t want to try her bite. The TSA guy who took my checked bag was actually friendlier.

Got upstairs by 3:40 and found out TSA doesn’t open until 4:15, so a bunch of us were stuck in Limbo Land; few chairs, no facilities. So much for getting there two hours early.

I was first in line, expecting to have to opt out of the naked scanner and get groped, but I was surprised to find myself in the pre-check lane: I didn’t have to take off my shoes or anything. Wow. And the guy at the desk smiled and called me Sir. I hope this doesn’t mean that all the unpleasantries are at the other end of the trip.

We were diverted to West Palm Beach because of fog in Miami. After we’d sat on the tarmac for an hour, the nice man in the middle of the cabin said we could get out and walk around the terminal, but the nice lady at the door – not the one who originally told us we were landing in Palm Springs – said we could only get off if we didn’t want to get back on.

We got to Miami two hours late, and they told me to go to another gate to see if I could get on the next flight out. While I’m waiting for the agent to see what she could do, a passenger lady says, “Is your name Richard?”

“No. someone once said I look like Jerry Lewis, but I think I’d prefer Richard.”

Not two minutes later a guy who hadn’t heard the first conversation looks at me and says, “Is your last name Murphy? You look just like a guy I used to know.”

“Well, my wife says I look like Alfred E. Neuman.”

It never rains, but it pours.

So we get to Miami and they tell us to go to the agent to see what we do next. My flight is supposed to go on to San Jose, but the agent sends me two hundred yards down the way to the next departing flight. Now if my better (thinking) half had been with me, she would have said, “Henry. What about the bag you checked?” But no, Mr. Smartypants World Traveler leaves his wife at home, trots down to the next departure with twenty minutes to spare before boarding, snarfs down A Nathan’s World Famous Chili Dog, gets on the plane with his fingers still smelling of onions, gets to San Jose, and only then thinks to ask, “Where’s my bag?”

After waiting forty-five minutes at the baggage claim customer service desk – Richard Murphy got to go through immigration first, but he had to wait for his erstwhile friends, who turned out to be a couple (I told you the guy didn’t hear what his wife said) and their erstwhile friends to do their thing at the service desk – he hears that the bag is still in Miami. Well, it’s on the plane from Miami. According to the system. Vamos a ver, ¿nó? (We shall see, right?)

Meanwhile, Don Raúl has been waiting outside for two hours and now will have to wait another hour plus however long it takes to get the baggage to the carrousel. Fortunately, the chica tica at the desk lets me use her phone, and after she tries unsuccessfully three times to ring my friend who can tell Don Raúl what’s up, I get through. And I was afraid I’d used up all my good karma hitting nothing but green lights driving around yesterday.

So now I’m sitting on Carrousel #3 waiting for the baggage from AA 2221 from Miami to be coughed up. I’ll probably owe Don Raúl bigtime when I finally get out there.

On the second flight I finally had the chance to write the blog post I’ve been sitting on since Sunday. A fellow passenger noticed the title and asked what it was about. This wasn’t the lady in the next seat, who was part of a group of twelve Methodists from Lewisburg, TX, down to build residences at a Bible school – it was the guy across the aisle! (I peek at my neighbors’ reading materials too, so I wasn’t offended, but I was surprised.) It turns out he has a gig selling temporary tattoos of Scripture verses: carry the Word with you where you can see it and memorize it. He thought my writing was “interesting.” Good tactful choice of words.

So I finally get my bag and head outside and – no Don Raúl! I try using a pay phone, but there’s a lot of noise and a voice saying God knows what, so I quit and go sit on the bench I expected Don Raúl to be sitting on. Friday, Friday, getting down on Friday . . . . I get tired of sitting and try walking around. Still no luck Then I have a revelation. I hadn’t told David I’d be wearing glasses. I take off my glasses, try the walk again, and Presto! A tall guy about my age looks at me and says, “Henry?” Success at last!

As a special bonus, Don Raúl’s English is little better than mine – or maybe he just has a heart of gold. For an hour and a half we wend our way through the back streets of the San Jose metropolitan area (“Isn’t there a direct route?” “The highways are all clogged. We’ve got thousands more cars now than 50 years ago but the same roads.”), him making the best of my Spanish and me being constantly reminded how much easier reading Spanish is than trying to hear it.

We finally make it at 7:15. After a half-hour wait he puts me on the 8:00 bus and off we go. We’re estimated to get to Limón at 11, the last bus to Bribri having left at 4, and David will be there to chauffeur me the rest of the way. Maybe. If so, I should be in bed by, oh, 12:30 or so.

I’ve probably taxed your patience with this saga, but the next posts will likely be shorter, and frankly, I haven’t had so much fun, fun, fun since her daddy took the T-bird away.