I love the Midwest. For example, I saw a man in his late 40’s this morning dancing at the gas station while he was filling up his car’s tank. It was about 30 degrees outside which isn’t really that bad but the wind was whipping pretty well, making it feel much colder than it truly was. Regardless, the guy had his car door open with his radio gently emitting the sound of 60’s R&B, and there he was doing a little happy shuffle as his gas tank diligently accepted more and more gasoline.
That’s Minnesota for you. What’s not to love?! Just for the record, that word in the title is pronounced bag, as in the first syllable of bagel. That’s a little bit of Minnesota speak for you non-Minnesotan’s. Some people find that accent annoying but, you guessed it, I find it kind of cute. Yes, I’m a bit weird but you probably already guessed that.
And then there’s Phoenix…
I recently took a trip back to Phoenix. It was to be the first time since I left in 2004 that I would be visiting the city where I resided for 20 long years of my life, from 1984 to 2004, the years I commonly refer to these days as the “sweating years” since that’s about all I did there anyhow. I admit that I was slightly nervous about going back, seeing the places that I used to frequent, and visiting with old friends of mine that I once would see on a daily basis while roaming the hallways at work. I wasn’t sure what kind of emotional turmoil if might set off inside of my psyche or what other strange effect it might have on me. After looking at the weather forecast, I was also slightly afraid of, well, sweating.
Now, Phoenix isn’t a bad place, really. It’s all in what makes you tick, what your preferences are, and so on. The common link to all Phoenix residents is that they pretty much 100% don’t like weather that’s under 60 degrees and they have no issue whatsoever with eternal sunshine every single day of the year, except for the 3 or 4 days that it drizzles for an hour (and believe it or not they complain that it’s not sunny…go figure). Practically everything in the city is brand new as well, and a building that was constructed in the 60’s is considered “old” and a relic. It’s a great place for sports, golfing, partying, and outdoorsy things that don’t require water or vegetation (hiking, mountain biking, etc.). The downside is that there’s very little history to the city, a major lack of culture and artistic expression, and close to nothing to see in historic architecture. If the above description appeals to your preferences then more than likely you’d love it; if it makes you cringe, I’d advise staying put. I personally like a lot of variety in weather since I get bored easily and due to my chemical makeup I sweat whenever it’s over 70 degrees outside. I know, you didn’t need that visual…sorry. I also get horrid headaches from sunlight due to having very sensitive eyes and such, and so I’m sure you can imagine how much I enjoyed Phoenix for those 20 years just in regards to the weather alone. I personally live for winter and the seasons in general, and I’m beginning to suspect more and more that I’m part polar bear rather than Italian. Coupled with my love of the arts and culture, I felt rather, pardon the pun, stranded in the desert for 20 years. Again, it’s all about what you’re into and there’s no real right or wrong, just personal preference.
Anyhow, back to my point… I had scheduled my first trip back to Phoenix during the weekend of December 16th and I wasn’t sure what awaited me. To make things more complicated, I joined a band back in September and our first show was only days after returning. Being the freak that I am I usually practice heavily on the weekends and mildly during the week but due to my schedule I’d have little time before the performance to practice at all. I couldn’t help but wonder if not playing for 5 days straight would be a severe mistake.
The motto of my trip was simple: don’t get sick! It’s December, after all, and all sorts of cold and flu strains are flying through the air like mosquitoes in mid-summer. I have a personal history of picking up some sort of illness from flying and considering the time of year, where I was going, etc., the odds were clearly against me of remaining sick free. I already had a fairly bad cold all during my time off at Thanksgiving and so yet another bout of illness really didn’t sound too attractive. Again, with the band’s first show only days later, I truly couldn’t afford it.
Then again, what is a guy to do? Flying is like being trapped with 100 or so strangers shoved in a closet and at least 20% of them don’t a) cover their mouths when they sneeze or cough, b) are already ill and are extremely eager to share it with you, or c) they’ve already touched everything in the plane on prior flights and who knows what germs are lying awaiting your presence before you even board. Quite frankly have you ever seen anyone disinfecting the inside of the plane? I haven’t, and I’m fairly convinced that the person would be wearing a radiation suit in order to do it.
My story really begins after it begins, though, or perhaps more appropriately it began before it began. It was Jerry Seinfeld’s fault, that’s all I can say. Okay, let me start at the beginning… A few days before leaving, I had noticed that Jerry Seinfeld was planning a stop in Minneapolis and the tickets just so happened to go on sale at 10am on December 15th…and my plane was scheduled to take off at 11:15am. I tried desperately to get the password for the Wednesday presale but I got it an hour into the sale and the best seats were already taken. Like a dope, I thought that perhaps they hadn’t opened up the entire floor and that Friday’s sale would still give me a great shot at good seats. My plan was to be logged onto Ticketmaster exactly at 10am, to get everything done by 10:15am, and run out the door and drive like mad to the airport. I figured I should be able to get there by 10:45am, no problem, and that still gives me a half hour to get to the gate. I don’t fly that often and I’m new to flying Northwest Airlines and I chose to ignore the “check-in online 24 hours in advance” email since I had to check-in luggage anyhow and there seemed no real point in it. It was a good plan, eh?
Like most of my plans, there were a few flaws. As usual, Ticketmaster and I have a love/hate relationship (see “The Ballad of the Tom Waits’ Ticket”), and of course it ended up that they did indeed open up all the seats during the presale, meaning that my selection on Friday was even worse than before. Frustrated, I tried to simply buy any ol’ seat and then my Ticketmaster password didn’t work. A few more minutes of fighting with my computer and I noticed it was already 10:15am. Abandon plan! I shut everything off, grabbed my luggage, and literally ran out the door. Minutes later I was bumbling down the highway at an absurd speed.
Parking at MSP is pretty simple, although it costs a fortune, and I even got a good spot close to the terminal. I walked very fast up to the check-in counter, waited a minute or two for the people in front of me, and then attempted to check-in. “ERROR!!! PLEASE SEE ATTENDANT!” the computer flashed on the screen. Uh oh. The attendant slowly made her way over to me, asked me a couple questions, typed a few keystrokes, and then said accusingly, “Well sir, it’s less than 30 minutes to your flight.”
I looked at her stupidly. “And? So what?”
“Well,” she said, “Northwest’s policy is that you have to be checked in prior to 30 minutes before your flight. You’ll have to wait for the next flight.”
My mouth slowly started to hang open more and more, probably making a very attractive looking home for insects or lightly colored moss. “You’re kidding, right?” She shook her head. I looked down at my watch and it was now precisely 10:48am. “But it’s been like 3 minutes…and I’ve been standing here at least 3 minutes…”
“I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do,” she replied, and again looked accusingly. “That’s why we offer online check-in.” Ah, that freakin’ online check-in!
“But I had to check-in bags so what’s the point of online check-in?” I asked.
She grimaced. “It’s so you can board the plane.”
“But then what about my bag?” I thought I had her on this one.
I’ve learned that airline employees have an excuse for everything. “It would have caught the next flight.” Nice to know that my luggage doesn’t need to fly standby, i.e. they treat our luggage better than us, the real people who pay the money.
Arguing seemed futile except for raising my blood pressure and so I gave up the battle. Oooh, I was ticked, let me tell you, and I think I was even growling to myself in the corner, scaring a young couple sitting not far from me. And so, no Jerry Seinfeld tickets AND no plane ticket. This trip truly wasn’t beginning correctly.
I ended up being on standby and didn’t actually escape MSP until the 5:10pm flight. I barely made that one, only getting on since the guy that was actually called at the last minute for the standby seat had only moments before walked away thinking it was fruitless.
Have you ever seen the movie “The Out of Towners”? I’m referring to the original Jack Lemmon version, of course, but probably either will do. I clearly was having an Out of Towner’s (OOT) trip so far and it was about to get even better. My hotel for the evening had a 4pm MST cancellation policy and since I wouldn’t know until after 5pm CST if I got on the plane (if I didn’t get on the 5:10pm flight I was planning on just leaving the next morning), well, I had called and cancelled my room for that night, just to be safe. I had explained my entire predicament to the hotel clerk, how I wouldn’t know if I needed the room and such until after the cutoff, sort of hoping that she’d have some sort of sympathy or plan for me. Instead, she said, “Um, okay, er…what do you need again?” I swear my cats listen to me closer than other humans! Instead of retelling my predicament I simply cancelled my room for that night. I did ask, however, if they had many rooms available and the clerk stated they had “tons of them”. I felt mildly reassured, even though she hadn’t heard a word I said only moments prior.
Okay, so it’s now 5:15pm and I did get on the plane, of course, most likely because I had cancelled my hotel room and fate could have some fun with me. It was only then that I realized that I hadn’t eaten since 8am that morning and we wouldn’t be landing in Phoenix until 8pm! Almost instantly the shakes began. I figured I’d get the flight attendant to give me a few extra bags of peanuts, which leads us to OOT moment #2: NWA doesn’t hand out any free snacks anymore and instead they sell a snack bag for $2, a snack box for $5, and so on. I opened my wallet and I had exactly $1 and no change. I meant to go to the bank before I left but I talked myself out of it, saying “why do I need cash when I have credit cards?” Just like Jack Lemmon who shrugs off the stewardess’ attempts at giving he and his wife coffee and a snack since they intended on having a big dinner that evening, I had to sit and listen to others around me crunching, munching, and making other various noises while my only nourishment would be a cup of ice with Coca-Cola in it.
By the time the plane landed I was simply ravenous with hunger. My first order of business after disembarking was to call my sister and let her know that I had actually arrived. I had called the hotel from MSP by using my credit card at a pay phone but Phoenix doesn’t have that option on their phones. I searched the airport for someone that would change my one lonely dollar into quarters and stopped at one of the airport stores. The clerk told me that I had to buy something in order to get the change. I replied that if she had something for less than 50 cents I’d be happy to since I only had a dollar and needed at least 2 quarters left over. She looked at me oddly and instead just opened the register and gave me the dollar in change.
I called my sister, made the plan to meet at Café Lalibela (still the greatest Ethiopian restaurant I have ever encountered) and we met there shortly after. I arrived first and was about to fall over from hunger so I ordered some soup and promptly gulped it down as if I had walked to Phoenix without any food or water rather than flown. Once my sister and her husband arrived, I only then remembered to call the hotel and get my room back. I borrowed her phone and called.
“Hi,” I said, “I had a reservation that I cancelled earlier because I thought I might not get on the plane but in the end I’m here and need the room.”
The clerk, a different person from the call earlier, responded arrogantly, “Oh, we don’t have any rooms. We’re all filled up.” Yep, I didn’t see that one coming. So much for “we’ve got tons of rooms”. With that, I ended up sleeping on my sister’s couch that evening.
The next day I learned that practically every single person that lived in Phoenix was sick with something. It didn’t really matter where I went, who I was around, etc. Maybe I was just super-sensitive to it since I so much didn’t want to get ill, I’m not sure. Regardless, at least 60% of the people that I had hoped to see while in Phoenix ended up canceling since they were ill. I was surrounded by sickness but I stood my ground just the same.
That evening, I checked into my hotel finally (a day late, mind you) and hoped to get a good night’s rest. I was comfy, the temperature in the room was just right, and all seemed perfect…until 3:30am when I was woken up by the room directly next to me who decided to throw a party. Yes, no kidding, an all out party, drinking, talking loudly while looking over the balcony, and so on. I couldn’t believe it. I called the front desk and was ready to scream. The last words I heard before the party broke up was “Hey! Have you ever p*ssed off a balcony before???” This could only happen to me, I tell you.
The rest of the weekend was fairly normal and it wasn’t until the following night, of course, that I finally got to sleep a bit although I had to get up kind of early the next morning for my flight back home. I met a friend for breakfast and then headed over to Sky Harbor Airport for my departure flight. I was careful to make sure that I checked in online this time, just in case. I was sure that this flight would be better than the one out to Phoenix. I truly felt I had all my bases covered. I’ll give you one guess as to what happened next…
We’re finally allowed to board the plane and my seat is located towards the back of the plane. I have the window seat and there’s a young man, probably about age 25, already sitting in the middle seat. I tell him that I have the window seat, more or less asking him to get up so that I can sit down, and he just sort of sits there for a moment or two looking a little panicked and confused. Does he not know what I mean? I wasn’t sure if I should clarify or not. Finally, looking more panicked than before, he does get up and allows me access to my seat. I sit down, buckle up, and breathe a sigh of relief since I’m on board and ready to go home.
Meanwhile, the guy next to me is beginning to make me a bit uneasy. He looks truly nervous, or worried, or something like that. I start thinking about the film “United 93” and how the terrorists acted before they took over the plane and this guy next to me is sort of in that zone. I’m not sure what I should do. Should I notify the flight attendant? If I do, what do I say? “This guy next to me is acting weird!” Er, no, I think not. I’m sitting at the window seat so clearly I can’t get out easily, plus people were still boarding the plane. I was trapped.
It’s then that I look closer and notice that he’s got a big wad of cotton strapped on the back of his left hand, you know, like as if he had an IV in there a little while ago. On his right arm I see a hospital band, most likely with his name on it. I kind of look at his face again and now I’m thinking he’s suicidal, or maybe he’s escaped or something. Oh my god, he IS a terrorist! Help!!!
It’s then that he suddenly looks really nervous, opens up one of those plastic coated bags, and proceeds to vomit. Bleeeeeuuu!!! Then, he vomits again. And again. And again. The vomit seems to continue for minutes, the bag quickly filling up with liquid, and afterwards, even though he’s done, he’s doing that thing that we all do but don’t discuss, more or less spitting out wads of food that got stuck in his teeth on the way back up. All the while, I am forced to sit there through this ordeal, trying not to scream or vomit myself, trapped in my window seat in pure horror. And so he’s not a terrorist and he’s not suicidal…he’s freakin’ ill and I’m trapped next to him for the next 3 hours until we arrive back in Minneapolis! Being a partial germ-a-phobe combined with not wanting to get sick I nearly had a coronary just thinking about it.
My favorite part, though, was that the flight attendant walked by moments later. The guy motioned to his bag of sickness and pleaded, “Can you please take this and dispose of it, and then please get me another?”
The flight attendant clearly connected the dots in her head and then said, “I can’t take it right now. Just hold onto it.” She then walked away.
Are you out of your mind?! It was then that I was really ready to scream. The guy looked stunned, sort of like the flight attendant just told him that we were in a submarine under water and not in a plane at all, and ended up just sitting there, clearly looking around for where he’d puke next. Luckily, the attendant returned with a new bag as well as a large plastic garbage bag. “Just put them all in there and I’ll collect it when the flight’s over.”
Yes, that’s right, folks, I, um, we, had to fly with the barf bag for 3 hours as if it had paid for a ticket and was the fourth passenger in our row. The person with the aisle seat arrived shortly after and was none the wiser. Meanwhile, I decided to glue my mouth shut as much as possible and avoid touching anything in the near vicinity for fear of getting whatever “it” was that he had. I knew I was doomed but I wasn’t going to go down without a fight. The aisle guy, though, enjoyed his flight, completely clueless that we were all going to be deathly ill by the time we arrived and not realizing that he was sharing his seat with a ¾ filled bag of compressed food and stomach acid.
We landed finally at MSP and as soon as we left the plane I stayed as far away from my former seat mate as possible. Inside I felt truly sorry for him for he clearly wasn’t feeling well and surely must have been embarrassed. Still, I had a show to do in 4 days and I had to think of myself.
Everything seemed fine for the rest of Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Thursday night, however, less than 24 hours to the performance, I awoke at around 3:30am to having horrible stomach pain, a headache, and dripping in a cold sweat. I was sure I was going to throw up on stage that night and it seemed to be my destiny, my worst nightmare realized.
Well, I didn’t, and the show actually went quite well even though I felt less than 100%. I took any meds I could find and made it through the night just fine. The next day, though, I was literally crawling around my house with beyond belief stomach and headache pains.
The good news is that I never did vomit. I guess I won after all, or sort of. I was ill the entire week of Christmas and considering I was ill the weekend of Thanksgiving I was clearly on a roll.
I can only think that Phoenix attacked back in one form or another. Cities don’t like to lose one of their lifer’s and clearly Phoenix was ticked at me.
I still can’t believe that we had to share the flight home with the “bag”. I think the next time I fly Northwest Airlines, just for the fun of it, I’m going to bring a used bedpan along as the fourth passenger in our row.
And, oh yes, I’ll make sure I check-in the bedpan online 24 hours in advance.
