Early Riser

While waiting at O'Hare airport at an ungodly early hour on Tuesday morning, I had a few basic observations that I'd like to share with you. It only seems fitting. Consider them my gift to you.

• Everything is easier to navigate at the airport if you arrive at 5 am. It is quiet, empty and peaceful.


• The TSA people are not crabby yet at 5 am, and that alone is worth getting up really early. The man practically helped me put my boots back on. Seriously.


• When they de-ice the plane three times before you board, and once before you get to the tarmac, it is a tad bit disconcerting. And, it smells pretty strange when the fumes get pumped into the air vents before takeoff.


• The airports HAVE to be the only place left you can find that printer paper that is all connected with the tear-off holes on each side. Those people are ready for just about anything—if they need a "Welcome Home, John!" or a "Happy Birthday, Mom!" sign, they're ready at a moment's notice.


• Coffee is the only thing I'm ready to put in my body before boarding a 6 am flight. And even that doesn't help when the alarm went off at 3:20 am.


• ALWAYS check which Chicago airport you're flying out of—a trip to O'Hare, only to find out that you need to be at Midway, and then getting rebooked back onto a flight at O'Hare will ruin your day. And your husband may find clever ways to rename Midway (MDW). This wasn't me, but I am so sorry for my friends!


• They must put something else in the air when they pressurize the cabin for takeoff. Seriously, I can't even stay awake long enough to make it to the end of the tarmac. Are we being collectively drugged?


• No matter how old I get, there is something so nice about being picked up at the airport by my Mom. I even forgive her for taking a photo of me as soon as she got out of the car to hug me (evidence below). I would rather have had her grab my suitcases, but I'll let her slide.

I got lucky enough to get out of Chicago before the delays hit O'Hare and people had to wait hours and hours to get out of town. And, I arrived without incident in Atlanta, where the "low" temperatures are about 50.

NOT complaining.

Merry Christmas to me! And to you, of course. Especially if you work at TSA or United Airlines.

Airport Red Rover

My sister has been emailing me all week torturous messages from her travels in Los Angeles, courtesy of her Blackberry.

I keep getting ones like, "Sitting in a tank top in Santa Monica on the beach—it is so sunny here!" or "Just saw the girl from 'Bend it Like Beckham' while touring the Warner Brothers Studio!" or "Heading to a big party for our cousin, can't wait to meet Jimmy Kimmel and Sara Silverman to ask them why Ben Affleck isn't at the party!"

My personal favorite included a funny deformed photo of herself which I'm assuming was captured in the wiggly fun house mirrors at Ripley's Believe it Or Not Museum where she said, "Had some time to myself so I stopped into a Beverly Hills Salon and got some work done."

It was frightening. I barely recognized her pretty little face. I urged her to come home before she ended up looking like a bad rendition of an Orange County Housewife. Which, in itself, is a bad rendition of a normal American middle aged woman, if you ask me.

And, the final email featured her sitting patiently in the LAX cell phone waiting area for her boss' plane to land. She and I both agree that the cell phone waiting lots are a genius idea—a very simple solution to a really annoying problem. See how this comes back to commuting? Patience, people, patience.

In Atlanta, my hometown and arguably the busiest airport in the country, when you're flying in, you must either have an uncanny sense of timing or ESP in order to meet your party outside the arrivals gates at just the exact moment when they choose to drive by, or you have to have them park somewhere near the airport, which can only be described as the 'hood, only to wait for your "I've just landed!" call to get them moving. Otherwise, the driver tries to deploy a stealth operation designed to stall along the arrivals gate, idling in the lane while the Atlanta Police yell at you, scream obscenities and threaten tickets, fines, or promise to steal your first born.

The cell phone waiting lot allows you to avoid all of that, and to wait for your party, but in a civilized, uniformed and efficient manner. Atlanta Hartsfield and O'Hare airports, get on that, wouldja?

Lauren claims that at the LAX lot, all the cars starting up and leaving her one by one made her feel like she was playing a giant cosmic game of Red Rover, and she was the fat, sweaty, scary and overly tall kid of whom everyone was afraid.

She's not, for the record.

But, if I wasn't a tiny bit afraid of her, I'd be posting the fun house mirror photo for you all to see.

My Guy Doesn't

I can't believe I forgot to post this story right after it happened.

Maybe I was still stunned.

Not that I should be shocked anymore by the actions of cab drivers here in the city, but somehow I still am. The decorum of normal, decent human behavior doesn't seem to apply to taxis, their owners, their insides, their smells, or much of anything that touches the entire experience.

On my way to a business trip to DC a few weeks ago, I took a cab to O'Hare like normal. Normal being defined as this:

• rough 'stop and go' driving all the way down Addison towards the expressway

• a really fuzzy radio playing almost too quietly to even make out anything, but not quietly enough to feel like a peaceful silence

• vicious bodily odor filling the 4 square feet that this stranger and I occupy

• awkward semi-English conversations had across a chest-high plastic partition covered in handprints, stickers, Braille and city maps labeled with Mayor Richard M. Dayley's name

• 45-minutes of traffic even at the painful hour of 6 am on a Sunday morning (following a day-drinking fest for college football the day/night before)

So...now that we've established normalcy, I arrive at the United terminal at O'Hare, weary and war-torn for a 8 am flight to Regan National airport. We sidle up to the Departures doors, I pull out my credit card, and hand it to the driver as he navigates the traffic cops, taxis, limo drivers and kiss-ride drivers bidding farewell to traveling family members.

My Guy (you do tend to form a sort of bond in 45 smelly, jerky, awkward minutes together) slows to a stop not quite 15 feet from the car in front of us. I would have pulled all the way up, but that's just me.

Apparently the traffic cop was more like me. He whistles (do they REALLY need those things?) and waves his arm wildly and indicates that My Guy should pull all the way up. Make room for one more obnoxious cab behind us.

My Guy doesn't.

The traffic cop (who isn't armed by the way, unless you count the neon yellow jacket and orange mesh reflective vest) isn't having any of this. He whistles, waves and yells "Pull all the way up!"

My Guy doesn't.

Again. The entire fiasco repeats itself, while my credit card is "authorizing..." and I just sit in the back, praying silently for My Guy to obey the innocent, yet slightly overbearing, traffic cop.

My Guy doesn't.

And, by now, he's not a silent objector. He's mad.

He starts to yell back. "NO! I'm fine right here! Shut up! No! I'm not moving! Don't you have more important things to do? Is your job even important? Who needs you?!"

I'm flushing with shame, and I'm totally innocent. Just too close for comfort, mind you.

The traffic cop whips out his trusty little notepad and starts to write My Guy a ticket. For sitting too far back in the lane of departure drop-offs. Okay, I'm sure the insults about job necessity didn't help.

My Guy starts yelling expletives, sprinkled with foreign phrases that I'm pretty sure didn't translate to "Your vest is becoming in this early dawn sunlight, sir."

The cop starts to hand him a ticket, and My Guy does the unthinkable.

He rolls up the window.

On the ticket, and partially on the cop's arm.

I'm gasping.

And, that is only partially to cover the embarrassed, shameful giggles that are threatening to erupt.

My Guy continues to yell (despite the semi-closed window) and now it is just me that is truly absorbing his over-inflated, multi-lingual rage.

My blasted credit card FINALLY authorizes and My Guy finishes the paperwork. Hands me the two tiny little child-size receipts to sign, and I pocket the credit card as fast as you can say "ticked off traffic cop."

I fling the door open, curb side of course, and begin my exit. My Guy is still yelling. Has rolled down and back up the window. The ticket fell in his lap, and he ripped it in thirds, threw it on the ground outside the car, and continues his crazy-talk tirade.

My bag was in the trunk.

I have to interrupt the lunatic driver now, and ask (politely, using my pleases and thank yous) to pop the trunk. He does.

Using a feat of super-human strength, in one swift motion I grab my suitcase, fling the trunk closed, and hip-check the back door closed, all while dodging the verbal attacks that are aimed at the traffic cop.

Now, admittedly, the traffic cop was on an ego trip. (Wouldn't you feel a bit sassy in not one, but TWO neon reflective articles of city-issued, Daley-stamped, official-looking clothing?!)

But still. Just give me the blasted receipt and let me be on my way.

The entire experience made TSA, the 3-1-1 rule, the weekend tourist crowds and the O'Hare security line seem like child's play. I think it was pretty normal.

My Guy doesn't.