I may or may not have traveled on every kind of transportation known to man on my trek back to Buckeye Country. And let me tell you, it was a fucking blast.
If you haven’t picked up on my blatant sarcasm, please just do yourself a favor and stop reading.
Last month I went back to the good ole OH-IO to visit my college friends (And managed to squeeze in a little family time
between during drinking binges. Thanks M, I really DID need some more beer to help my hangover. Woof.), and in order to have a bit of fun (Oh, who are we kidding? A LOT of fun.), I had to jump through flaming hoops.
I fly out of BWI because I’m cheap and apparently masochistic. To get to BWI, I have to take a train from Union Station. But to get to Union Station from Old Town Alexandria, I had to either taxi/bus to Braddock or King and THEN metro to Union Station. It’s quite a process. Thankfully, a coworker was headed to Union Station at the exact time I needed, so I got to bum a ride. And serve as her navigator.
Let’s just say, even with printed directions, an iPhone, and a navigation system, if I were Sacajawea leading Lewis and Clark into the wilderness two hundred years ago, the United States would not include the Louisiana Territory. I would have lead them to the Atlantic Ocean and we would have all drowned (well, maybe Lewis and Clark were apt swimmers, much unlike myself). It suffices to say, I got us lost. Multiple times. But we did arrive, and just in time for me to have a slight panic attack about being late, grab a Diet Coke (caffeine is always a good remedy when one’s nerves are already on edge…), and queue up right behind the most annoying family in history: a family of hipsters.
I did my best to forget in what capacity they were annoying; I just remember a lot of whining from the kids, the parents doing nothing, and me turning my iPod up as loud as possible (which drowned out their voice, but didn’t stop the kids staring at me like I was an alien).
From that point, I should have known the rest of my journey was bound to be “miz to the max”, as my college friends would say (or maybe just me…). As soon as I had access to the train platform, I booked it as far ahead of the hipsters as I could, and found a nice, quiet, fairly empty car to ride in. Until the hipster family boarded the same fucking car. No joke. I think the transportation gods decided to get me back for bitching so much, and this was their method of repayment. Along with the obese woman who sat next to me and the gaggle of business-people across the aisle from me.
These people were the most. Two of them got seats together, leaving the last lady to find a seat a few rows behind them. But that didn’t stop her from using the train ride as her own personal social hour, as she returned to stand next to her coworkers and stand there for the entire ride, giving me attitude as I politely asked her to move so I could get my bag down and get off at BWI. Now if anyone needs to be cursed by the transportation gods, it’s this bitch. I had like 500 bags (ok, three), wearing four inch wedges (not the most practical, but you never know who you’re going to meet on a plane), and clearly struggling to retrieve my 50 pound duffel bag. Help a girl out, and get the hell out of my way.
Somehow, I managed to get off the train (and hopefully run into the aisle-blocker) and catch a bus to the airport (I told you, I seriously was on every kind of ground transportation that weekend).
Surprisingly enough, security went by quickly, and I had time to grab the world’s largest beer before I had to drunkenly board the plane (or at least on an empty stomach, it sure felt like a giant beer). My buzz wore off almost immediately, as I discovered I had to chose a middle seat.
Tangent time: I love that Southwest boards based on check-in time; however I NEVER remember to check in in time to get a decent seat. Decent meaning not an aisle seat.
Somehow, I found a seat between two normal sized people, but still had to ride with my shoulders scrunched in as far as possible, to avoid any physical contact. The flight was short, but trying for an hour straight in an uncomfortable position is the surest way to lose any inebriation and start praying for a beer.
The gods of travel must have decided they had caused me enough strife, blessed me with a smooth landing and all luggage accounted for, and my ride waiting for me.
Obviously, they didn’t lay off for too long…