Fred and I wrapped up our very amusing trip to LA (I had short ribs four times in four different ways in the three days that we spent there. Don't ask me, I don't know how these things happen.) We woke up Monday morning to make our way to the airport and that's when our gay little adventure came tumbling down. Isn't that always just the way?
The whole weekend the news had been full of rack and ruin predictions about a great big storm that blew in Saturday night. I had ignored all of the weather related hysterics; I grew up in the swamps of East Texas and I am not impressed with rain storms unless they actually have sharks aloft in them. Los Angeles is a desert community and I figured the angelinos were simply unfamiliar with the concept of precipitation.
Sure enough, the storm blew in Sunday, and you know what? It was rain. Fred went out with some friends but I stayed in the hotel and had lunch in the nice little dining room and was very cozy.
We were supposed to fly out at noon on Monday, but weather conditions delayed our flight till 2:00. No big deal right? We got to the airport and our departure started slipping back further and further with weather delays continuing to be blamed. Finally about 5:00, the airline announced "oh you know what, never mind, your flight is canceled."
While my fellow passenger panicked and griped, Fred got in line at the ticket counter to pry our bags out of Alaska airlines' nasty little hands and I started scrambling to get another flight out. We were at Burbank airport and they were zero more flights that night, but I found a United one leaving out of Los Angeles International (LAX) around 8:00 pm.
Before I could even feel relieved, my phone decided it was tired and wanted a break. I had spent the time we were hanging around playing games on my traitorous phone and now it was dying. I hustled over to an outlet and plugged the charger in, only to find that in the 90 seconds it had taken me to get my charger going, the seats were no longer available. The only option was an even later flight at 10:30. Fine.
LAX is on the far side of Los Angeles from Burbank, but we made it over there in about an hour and cleared security in record time so that we could go and settle in at the gate. That's when we slammed into the world's most miserable seating. The whole terminal is very new and part of the decorating involved chairs that were both modern and lumpy. I spent almost 4 hours in them and never did find a comfortable position.
By the time the gate agent announced in funereal tones that our flight was delayed (AGAIN. It's not even the same fucking airport, How could this bad luck have trailed after us?) Fred was seriously beginning to fade. The combination of chemo and cancer has been hard on the poor little thing. He was crumpling like a balloon at the end of a very long birthday party and I was starting to wonder what one does if one's companion simply collapses in the particular hell that is an airport.
Let us just skip over the misery of those few hours, including the part where I made Fred just lie down on the floor because there was no where else to settle. In the end, miraculously, we made it back to our own little cow town and never has it seemed so welcome. My suitcase disappeared, but by that point I was perfectly willing to abandon it and all the dirty clothes it held. I just wanted to return to the embrace of my own bed, my own pillow, and my own toilet.