But Wait -- There’s More!
Sometimes the trip you plan isn’t the trip you get
Ten days ago I went back to St Louis on the spur of the moment for a 36-hour stay. Blasted into town for a family meeting that I very much wanted to attend. It went well and I learned a lot. Next morning I drove my rental car to the airport and checked in for the first leg of my return trip to Grand Rapids. I watched my suitcase disappear on the conveyer belt, leaving me with a tote containing a stack of heavy files, my night guards (yes, plural), my electronics and a comb.
Down to Concourse C and my gate... and there the fun began. I saw that my flight was delayed by a half hour because a severe storm system in the upper Midwest. There would be no chance of making my tight connection at O'Hare. The few remaining alternatives were sold out, seats bought up by frantic travelers in my exact predicament, who just happened to get to their airports a tad earlier than I did. However, that suitcase I watched disappear? That made it on the eventual flight just fine and onward to Grand Rapids.
Well, okay. Here's what I can do, thought I. Exchange my tickets for new flights in the morning, book a room at the convenient Airport 'Horton' for the night, take their shuttle, which I knew to be reliable, back over to Lambert early tomorrow and be on my way home. Inconvenient but no sweat. I scored a toothbrush and toothpaste at the front desk, lulled myself with stupid TV and slept poorly.
Next morning I got out of St. Louis as planned, landing at a beleaguered O'Hare. This monster storm, which I never did see, was still making kamikaze hits across the Great Lakes, effectively dorking airline schedules everywhere for the second day running. Well, no matter. This time I'd been smart, choosing a connecting flight due to take off a couple hours after my first flight landed.
That was all well and good until I actually trudged off the O’Hare jetway and discovered said flight had been canceled. I managed to get on an alternative flight; it, too, was axed. My phone and tablet were running out of juice. So was I, having lugged my heavy totebag up and down the lengths of O'Hare concourses H, J and K -- which you may know is quite some distance. My only option now: the last flight out to GR, arrival time 11 pm, on which I occupied the waiting list #20 slot. Risky in the extreme.
No way was I going to spend another night in a hotel or in the terminal. Chicago was just three hours from home by interstate. So I found my way back up concourse G or H or wherever the hell I was at that point, down into the bowels of O'Hare, and after a very long trek guided by red arrows painted on the floor (in a surreal nod to The Wizard of Oz), into the waiting room for regional bus connections. I bought a ticket, no muss no fuss, to Michigan City, Indiana. I rode for a peaceful two hours in a cushy, commodious seat, as the grappling hooks in my neck and shoulder muscles loosened their grip. Not once did I hear a Barbie voice bleating over a scratchy microphone, reminding me to keep my seat belt fastened (“We DO ask…”) or a weary pilot reporting further delays at the next stop.
My dearest hero husband met me at Michigan City and drove me 90 minutes back up the Michigan coast, chasing a spectacular Big Lake sunset all the way. Then...I was home and it was over.
Except it wasn't. Several days later I began scratching the angry red bites that had broken out over my body -- shoulders, back, ankles, Wherever. Funny, I hadn't been outdoors. The oddest bites were inflicted in two precise lines like Busby Berkeley chorines, time-stepping a perfect Art Deco chevron across my right shoulder. What makes a mark like that? Where had I seen this before? On the internet... on WebMD?
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| Five...six...seven...eight... ONE....overnight sensation! |
Bedbugs! I had been ravaged by bedbugs, maybe on the bus, but way more likely in the Airport Horton. It's a favorite stopover of flight crews, whose peripatetic luggage is the perfect vehicle for these parasites.
Everything about my experience fit the bedbug profile. And let me just say, reading about the habits of the loathsome little creatures is nightmare material. Let me also say that their bites itch like crazy.
By now the itch has subsided, though my unwelcome tattoo job remains. It will fade, though my new resolve will not. Another meeting in St. Louis? Probably, and I'll happily attend. But you can bet I'll be driving.
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