I’m currently sitting in the airport in Salt Lake City. My flight from Atlanta this morning was delayed, twice. Of course, we’re landing in SLC at 11:16 local time and my flight was due to take off for Oakland at 11:15. Dang.
So now I’m on standby for a flight at 3:00. I hope the God’s of Air Travel will look down upon and realize that my quest is noble and get my ass on that flight because, if not, the next flight is at 8:00 and that would mean that I would sad-face all over the place, watching one day of my three day vacation with David spiral down the shitter.
I went and cashed in the $6.00 voucher, compliments of Delta at a chinese restaurant (mistake — the orange chicken tasted like orange pixie sticks) and wandered around through all the terminals. Visiting other airports just drives home my conviction that Atlanta needs more airports. It doesn’t really make an airport more efficient by just making it bigger. Shit is congested and we literally sat on the runway, waiting for our turn to fly, for about 30 minutes. When I came home from Jamaica with my then-boyfriend a few years ago, we sat on the plane, not moving, for almost two hours. Like, hey! This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.
I’m irritated, but still happy. Even in spite of the incident that just occurred in the bathroom. I did my biznasty and quickly jumped up and away, careful to turn my ass away from the automatically flushing toilet but it was no use. I felt, on my big toe, the chill of toilet water spray. Ew. So here I am, sitting in front of the gate, two hours ahead of schedule, writing a blog post and cooing into the phone at David.
He’s already THERE, by the way. And apparently it’s beautiful and you can smell the salt in the air and it’s cool and breezy. I want to be there! He’s going to go check into the hotel (jealous!) and nap (jealous!) and I’m supposed to call him when I have news.
I knew I should have booked a direct flight.