Getting there (part 2)

Sitting in the almost empty airport in Phoenix, staring up at the departure monitors, which mostly showed the blinking, canceled flights, I felt it. It had taken me four days. Nothing was going to be the same again.

All the shops were closed. No magazines for sale, no fake Native American dreamcatchers to buy as a souvenir, no Whoppers, no non-fat mochas, nothing. There were police and guards and military all over. With guns. Big guns. Walking through the airport.

I hate to admit this. I hate it. But.

Every man with brown skin, dark hair, especially facial hair, made me look a little longer. Ask myself, “Could he be one of the bad ones?” As I thought it, I knew it was wrong, went against everything I believed in. And still.

At the same time, I wondered what they were going through. All of a sudden, they’re being questioned, because of the color of their skin. And this time, the questions are in stares, and averted eyes when those stares were returned.

When I saw that I was going to get on the flight to Chicago, I shoved all my moral and ethical thoughts aside. I was going to make it! I would get there.

Had Jenny made it? Did Debbie? Who else would be there? It looked like I would arrive at 10 pm at O’Hare. I’d just have to wait. Seriously, when I got back home, I was getting a fucking cell phone.

On the plane – again almost empty – we still had a meal. The airlines didn't stop serving meals on most flights until later. When I had bought my ticket, or rather, when Jenny bought my ticket, I had ticked the box off for the “Vegetarian” meal. I’m not a Vegetarian, but those meals always seemed better than the regular ones. To me, the only food that works on a plane is pasta or a sandwich. I’d much rather have cheese ravioli than a wizened up piece of chicken, undercooked rice and overcooked green beans.

Well, just like everything else having to do with airplanes that week, food service for the airlines had gone all asunder. There was something about outside venders not being trustworthy enough, or the ability to check them out wasn’t in place or something like that. I don’t remember the details.

What I do remember is this:

Everyone on the plane received a cheeseburger, with packets of mayonnaise, mustard and ketchup, a side of lettuce, tomato slice and pickle, a bag of potato chips, and an individually wrapped brownie.

Oh, everyone but me.

I think it was supposed to be a veggie burger patty, but it was so dried up it was hard to tell. It sat on my plate next to whole-wheat pita bread, a mini bag of carrots, and a box of raisins. Yep. That was it. No spread, no chips or brownie for me (are those non-vegetarian items?).

I’m ashamed that my most vivid memory of the flight was the meager meal I was given. I mean, I should be remembering how brave I felt, how I was telling the terrorists to “stick it” because they weren’t scaring me from the sky. But no.

I remember the crummy food.


After landing, I hauled my luggage to a payphone and called the “W,” the hotel we were all staying in. I said I was late but I wanted to make sure I could still check in.

They hadn’t heard of me. Nope, there was no reservation with my name. Nope. Yes, there was a reservation for Jenny and for Debbie, but not for me.

Shit. The other bridesmaid? The one from Seattle that was too freaked to fly? Well, she wasn’t too freaked to cancel her reservation. Too freaked to call me and let me know however. Sheesh.

In any case, strangely enough, when I said I’d room with Debbie, they said they would add my name to her room and give me a key when I got in. Seems they might want to ask Debbie first, you know, make sure I was who I said I was, but it was a stressful time.

In the shuttle bus to the hotel, which I shared with a flight attendant who’d been stranded in, of all places, Seattle, since Tuesday, I realized that one of my gold peridot earrings was gone. Just gone. My mother had given them to me for my birthday… gosh, only a month earlier, and now it was gone. Any other time I would have been crushed, but all I could think was, “it’s just a thing. Just a thing.”

Walking into the hotel was like walking into the middle of a disco. Seriously. I’ve been to other W Hotels since then, but this was my first, and the place was hopping. People milling about, drinks in hand, loud thumpa thumpa music playing. And dark. It was very dark in there.

The doorman said it was like a “living room,” that the hotel wanted people to feel welcome when they came in, not to be confronted with a cold and sterile reception desk like most places.

It wasn’t like any living room I’ve ever been in.

He walked me over to the check-in, and I started searching the crowd. I didn’t have my glasses on, and like I said, it was dark. Oh, did I tell you? I’d never set eyes on her husband to be? As the receptionist asked me questions, I thought I spotted her. I squinted… as if that ever helps.

“Eeeeee! Becky! Oh! You’re heeeeere!”

Jenny’s piercing scream, like one of my junior high school girls, trying to get attention out in the halls, sliced through everything.

She grabbed me, and almost knocked me over. Debbie was right behind her.

“I guess this means I don’t get to stand in for the Maid-of-Honor?” I smiled at her.

It was 11:30 at night. The wedding was at 1:30 the next afternoon.