Grand Adventure .... part two

San Francisco United Airlines Gate 77A was where my Auntie and I parked our booties for nine long hours

after our scheduled flight was cancelled.

We had successfully completed only one leg of our six day journey.

Bakersfield, to Eugene, Oregon.

The day I left Reno in order to drive down to Bakersfield,

I stopped by my chiropractor's office for a quick racking and cracking.

"I don't think you can get from Bakersfield to Eugene on an airplane, can you?"

"I have tickets to prove it can be done."

Little did I know he was right.

Back to gate 77A.

After taking several short walks to get our joints lubricated,

eating a big cup of mint chocolate chip ice cream,

two trips to the restroom,

 being repeatedly disappointed because we did not see our name pop up as standby passengers on two subsequent flights to Eugene, 

I decided to interview other bored passengers.

It went something like this:

Blonde, middle aged woman who listened to my report on the African American child replied,

"I knew neither one could be the mother of that child, and somehow I knew she had two mommies."

After a few moments discussing what I had learned, she seemed satisfied with my intel.

Like the men on American Pickers say when they are trying to buy something from a hoarder,

"We have to buy something to break the ice."

In this case, just striking up a conversation with a complete stranger constitutes breaking the ice.

I can't quite remember the sequence of conversational exchanges, but after the woman got chatting, 

she was unstoppable.

In the course of 20 minutes or so of conversation we learned:

1. She was divorced, twice

2. Husband #1 was an alcoholic, and she had two kids by him

3. She eventually quit being an enabler, went to AA support meetings

4. Divorced him-but had a butt load of problems trying to get away from him and his influence

5. After years of being alone, decided her Prince Charming was in a wheelchair somewhere, so she planned

a fantastic new life for herself by accepting a job in London, England.

6. At her going away party, a female friend of hers invited a man to the party

7. He wasn't in a wheelchair, sparks flew, they dated a few times

8. She decided not to take the London job, and eventually married that man

9. Husband #1 died from complications of falling off a roof, we all agreed he was probably intoxicated

10. Her son committed suicide

11. She has one surviving child, who suffers from depression

12. She could NEVER paint her toenails red.

Not to gloss over points one through eleven, but the most pressing issue we talked about for several minutes

was the fact that she had ugly feet, her sister always told her that, and she should never show them in public.

When I looked down to see her feet,

I really, really couldn't help myself,

I discovered she was wearing boots.

Who wears boots in California at the end of July?

"Of course you can have red toenails. Anyone could wear red toenail polish!" I consoled her.

Auntie showed her that even she, with her crooked little toes, can enthusiastically sport red toenail polish.

"See, see? If I can wear it, so can you," Auntie reassured her.

"Oh, no. No one needs to see these!" She immediately began ripping off her boots, 

then a sock came whizzing past my ear in her frenzy to show us 

the ugliest feet west of the Mississippi.

It is at this point that I have to explain that there were other wayward passengers sitting close by us.

With each proclamation our lovely blonde haired woman made, more and more folks

began to listen in.

Immediately across from us sat a young 20 something woman, granola-ish, with yellowish, fuzzy, shoulder length hair, round, horn rimmed glasses, calmly, quietly reading her Kindle.

I caught her looking up and secretly smirking.

I winked at her.

She smiled and eyes went back to the Kindle.

Two seats down from granola, sat her polar opposite.

A woman in her fifties, very stylishly dressed, black capri pants,

gold, tailored blouse, with upturned collar,

sporting a sassy, modern short hair cut.

Her skin was milky white, and strikingly contrasted with her dark hair.

She wore red lipstick, and poking out from her Manolo Blanik type sandals were

perfectly manicured red toenails.

Annette was her name. I do remember that one.

Now, Annette sat mute with her companion large, gold, handbag filling the seat next to her

until the discussion about alcoholic husbands came around.

Then she too began chiming in on the communal conversation declaring she had a similar experience.

"Sociopath! Drunk, narcissistic, sociopath. That was what I married."

Annette's delivery of her vital information came lazily as a sarcastic, matter of fact, statement.

Complete with rolled eyes, and a harumph.

Back to red toenails.

 

When nice blonde lady unleashed her self proclaimed ugly toes on us,

all was quiet for a fraction of a second as we took in the sight.

By the build up she had given us before the big reveal,

I expected to see some gnarly, infected, stinky nubs.

 

At first I couldn't see what the big deal was all about.

Then she pointed out the hideousness of having the toe, next to the big toe,

smaller than the one next to it!

My mind reeled.

This woman had convinced herself that she was a freak of nature, and unless she wanted to be signed up

as a circus act, that under no circumstances should she reveal her abnormality to the general public.

Apparently, we were in an acceptable alternate universe at gate 77A

because she had her shoes and socks off so quickly

I thought her feet were on fire.

"There, there you see? I absolutely could NEVER EVER wear red toenail polish!"

Her face beamed triumphantly.

The four of us looked at each other in stunned silence after her proclamation.

Granola girl sneaked a quick peek as well.

I asked her if she wanted in on the conversation.

"Oh my no. That is quite alright. I would just like to read. Thank you."

She had some kind of accent I did not recognize. Maybe Norweigan? Icelandic?

As if I knew what that accent might sound like.

I realized I was dealing with years, lifetimes, of  "never show those deformed feet to anyone" fears.

"I don't see what the big deal is all about. I would paint them in a heartbeat. If you don't like red

wear hot pink, but liberate those toes!" I told her.

Personally, I live for summer and sandals.

I cannot imagine a worse sentence than to have my feet cooped up year round.

Right then and there I started the Red Toenail Women gang. 

RTW.

Granola girl declined to join,

Annette said she was in,

Auntie and I were obviously the ringleaders,

and I want you all to be on the lookout for our wayward

shrunken toed member.

She is probably in disguise,

wearing brown cowboy type boots.

But we would know you anywhere,

boots or not,

red toenails or not.

I beg you to let them poor little toes run free.

I bet there are laws governing against discrimination of women with pint sized second toes.

If you join my gang, the RTW's, we will have your back.

I told Auntie that I will begin my campaign to get more members when I get home.

So if you see RTW spray painted on a wall near you,

Shhhhh, don't tell the cops,

let them figure out who we are,

and what we stand for.

RTW's UNITE!!!

*the accompanying picture is of a box I got for my Auntie to hold all occasion cards we gathered from our journey. The box looked a little tired to me, so I took the opportunity to decorate it for her as a reminder of our fantastic time together. I just realized there are five paisleys. If you would like to join our gang, just let us know. I will be happy to design another paisley in your honor. We are equal opportunity gangstas!

A Grand Adventure

Ten days, four airports, a walker, a wheelchair, and a couple of pick up rides later

boy do Auntie and I have stories to tell.

The plan was hatched several months ago when I heard my 79 year old aunt talk about how much she wanted to visit her cousins in Eugene, Oregon. I knew, with her advanced Parkinson's, she could no longer travel alone, and the chances of her getting to have another visit with her beloved cousins in her lifetime was extremely slight. I made a pledge to myself that I would help her get to Oregon one way or another.

Our first hurdle was her health. I had been waiting for several months to tell her I would go with her up to Oregon because she was having a lot of issues with pain, and doctors. Anyone dealing with Parkinson's understands there is a lot of complications from the disease. There are good days, and bad. Some days, she would tell me, she did not even get out of bed. I wondered how I could promise her something like this trip, get her hopes up, only to be thwarted because of her physical limitations.

When I finally told her of my scheme, she immediately perked up. "I can hurt just as well up there as I do right here. Let's go!!!" I was still concerned, and we had lots of talks about exactly how we would travel. She decided to fly. I am not sure if anyone who has never flown from Bakersfield, California, through San Francisco airport, then on to Eugene, Oregon can really appreciate how hardy a passenger needs to be in order to complete this pilgrimage.

For truly this was a pilgrimage.

After several weeks of eager anticipation, the first leg of our adventure was upon us. We each had one bag to check, and one carry on, excluding Auntie's walker. I was worried about getting through the security screening, but it turned out to be relatively easy. Just slow. I had heard the horror story of an elderly woman who was humiliated during the security screening process in the name of national security. I prayed no such incident would happen to my beloved Auntie. I am happy to report that all security checks were done with a great deal of compassion.

The issues we had while traveling were not even things I had remotely thought about. Every traveler has experienced weather delays, and mechanical problems with planes, but this trip took the cake for me. And I have traveled quite a bit.

I worked very hard to get a flight through to our destination that would minimize the discomfort to my frail Auntie. For a while, I did not think we could actually get decent flights to our destination and return. When I did, I realized we could fly to Hawaii for less dollars. Auntie assured me that her priority for the adventure was spending time visiting with much loved, and missed family members, and not simply the journey itself. If the journey was part of the experience, we would have driven. It would have saved lots of money, and as it turned out on our trip up to Eugene, we could have driven faster than flying! Go figure that one!

After the harrowing walker climb up the ramp to get into the tiny turbo prop plane in Bakersfield, and getting ourselves situated in the puny plane, we congratulated ourselves on how easy this first leg of our journey was. All hour and 15 minutes of it.

I had wheelchair assistance when we landed in SFO. The courier was a pleasant Asian man, and even gave Auntie a sort of mini roller coaster ride up the ramp into the terminal from the tarmac. We were first greeted with "Flight **** has a one hour delay." Okay, no big deal, we will have an airport picnic because we had already purchased Subway sandwiches. I thought we were very smart, and we could just eat our sammies on the plane as we traveled. The total flight time was supposed to be four hours. SURE.

Approximately 30 minutes into our hour delay at SFO airport, the monitor flashed the dreaded "flight canceled. see customer service agent." WTF???

Luckily, I had already finished my sammie, and we had made potty run number one, so I promptly headed to the customer service line. Of course, this is where the story gets really interesting. I leave Auntie guarding the bags, and before I can calculate which customer service place has the shorter line, I am flight canceled customer number 999. And all but one of the customer service representative disappear.

Really??? One representative to handle the rabid line of customers, each with a more desperate story than the next one as to why THEY need to be on the very next flight out of Dodge.

The woman behind me began calling a spouse and demanding he book her on the next flight out of SFO. I listened to a patter that made me so anxious for her to get the hell out of there. "I HAVE to be there by 3 p.m. TONIGHT!!! TONIGHT!!!! YOU HEAR ME????"

Dahling, everyone for three terminals around heard you.

I practiced Zen and the art of standing in line. It was either that, or I would be arrested for homicide. Thankfully, the sight of my little Auntie sitting there so calmly, and people watching gave me strength.

That and a call from United Airlines telling me I had already been rebooked on a flight TEN hours from now.

Ten, really? I decided to wait in line to talk to the only agent within ten terminals. I swear when planes get canceled, the airlines have a duck and cover drill for all available agents. 

Back in line, I came to and decide to pass the time interviewing folks in line. The young hunk of a man in front of me was on the last leg of his journey from Europe where he had been playing professional football. He lived in Eugene. He told me he had been traveling for two days. We started to plan the demise of the woman behind me when a mother of three, traveling with her mother and father, decided to go off like the fog horn on a tug boat. "I haven't had any sleep in 18 hours. I want to get HOME!!!" yadda, yadda, yadda. Good gawd I love entitled Americans.

The young football player did not even have an American phone to call home. It was sweet to hear him talk so calmly to her (I gave him my phone and told him to call momma). He reminded me of my son, Jared.

I could go on, and on, and on about the line I stood in for over two hours to rebook a flight out of SFO, but I think you get the drift. After several frenzied calls to waiting relatives, I was down to two bars on my phone. Bad girl me, I was thinking it was such a quick flight, I could go as light as possible. I packed my charger in my suitcase. What a dummy.

All I can say is Auntie and I ended up spending the entire time in the airport people watching, and towards the end of hour number eight or so, we found some kindred spirits.

For several hours we had watched a young, barefoot African American child wander about climbing on chairs and chatting with people. She had the most infectious smile. I observed her mothers as they took turns following her about. Each looking more tired than the other. Finally, I got an opportunity to chat with one of the mommas. She was tall, lanky, and wearing dreads. I had heard her speak to another stranded passenger and told my Auntie, "I think she is South African."

"How do you know?" she looked quizzical.

  

"Because I have a friend living in South Africa and we have Skyped several times. I recognize the accent. I am going to go over and ask her."

Auntie looked on as I had an animated talk with the young woman. Turns out I was right, she, her partner, and their adopted child were from 'Joberg.' At first I did not understand what she was saying, then she pronounced the whole name, Johannesburg, then I knew what she was saying. She explained to me how there are so many children in that country that are orphans, and she and her partner wanted to adopt. Turns out the child had grandparents in Oregon, and this was their first trip to visit them. I asked how in the world they got the child to fly so far and she replied, "She sleeps on the planes. She knows airports are safe, so she plays." Good for her, bad for mommies. They looked exhausted for sure. Their plane had been delayed as well, but they were soon to be on the last leg of their journey. Then sleep would come. I wished them well and thanked her for chatting with me.

When I got back to Auntie, I gave the report. She looked a little surprised that: 

1. I would go up to a complete stranger and interview them.

2. I was right about where they were from.

3. The child had two mommies.

Turns out there was another middle aged woman listening in on my report, and wanted more details. She had been playing with the child earlier and also wondered how the white women had the African American child.

That's when things got really crazy at gate 77A.

to be continued.......