The Long Ride Home -or- A Series of Unfortunate Events Part 1

Last week I traveled home from a 10 day stay in Thailand.  The first part of the trip was for work, and then I stayed an extra four days for vacation.  There was lots of good, great, and awesome about the trip, but one thing that was less than fantastic was that I had jet lag the whole time.

I'm not new to jet lag, but this was pretty impressive.  By the time I was packing to come home, I was fairly well sleep-deficient.  This is important background information for the story.  Following are highlights (or lowlights, in some cases) of my journey home.  The whole ordeal took a mere 42 hours.  Sometimes the best you can say about a harrowing international trip is that it makes for a good story afterwards.  And so, for your reading enjoyment, The Long Ride Home.

Hour 1: Sentimental Farewell Supper
Chiang Mai, Thailand

If you're an unseasoned international traveler, you might imagine that a final meal in a new country is a golden opportunity to enjoy on last taste of the cuisine of said place.  You would, however, be wrong.  Your final meal is also your last chance to have real food (airplane food generally not meeting that standard) for, potentially, many hours.  You should, therefore, always try to find food that you know is safe, both in providing some semblance of nutrition (in my case, protein), and in being neutral enough to not cause any intestinal distress.  Intestinal distress + hours on a plane = disaster.

So, I opted for Burger King at the airport.  Joy, I thought of you and our travels through Bangkok and enjoyment of BK at the airport and snapped this picture:

Things to note about my BK experience:  the cashier asked if I wanted my Whopper Jr. beef or pork (way to be culturally sensitive, BK) and the condiment dispensers contained "American Ketchup" and "Chilli Sauce".

Hour 6: Leslie Fails Spectacularly at Cultural Sensitivity
Guangzhou, China

I had arrived safely at my first layover, in China.  As I arrived in the hall where my departure gate for leg 2 of the journey would begin, I realized that there were no food options in this basement-hall, and set about going back upstairs to forage for sustinance.  There were no stairs.  There was a down escalator, and a small elevator.  Awesome.  A pack of people stood in front of the elevator, most of them African.

[author's note: I like Africans.  With very few exceptions, I have had great experiences with Africans from various nations.  Before I tell this story, let's remember that I was really tired and about to get on a 15 hour flight.  Ready?]

I mentally braced myself.  There's a lot that's different between African and American cultures, not the least of which is our understanding of personal space.  I looked at the number of people waiting to get on the elevator and judged there to be at least 2 loads of people ahead of me.  I am fully confident that every African in the group saw it as one.

The elevator doors opened and a mad dash to cram into the tiny cubical began.  The people in my area didn't even move- so obvious was it that there were already too many people crowding forward.  The group shuffled and re-arranged themselves, trying to become smaller than they were.

The doors did not close.  They were over the weight limit.

We all waited.  The people nearest the opening tried to press further back into the elevator.

The doors did not close.  We all knew someone would have to get off, but of course no one wanted to volunteer.  I helpfully pointed out that the elevator would come back.  FINALLY, three Middle Eastern men extricated themselves from the group and popped out.

The doors closed.

Meanwhile, behind me, more Africans were pushing in, anxious to get in on the next round.  I closed my eyes as the press of anticipation and bodies behind me grew.

When the doors opened again, we surged forward.  I was toward the end of the group and as I got into the tiny metal box I turned abruptly to face the people pushing in behind me.  I threw my arms out wide, blocking the door and said in my best teacher voice,"Stop!  No more.  Please wait for the next elevator."

If I hadn't been so stressed, I'm sure the looks on the faces before me would have sent me into a fit of giggles.  Shock and confusion.  Utter disbelief.  After all, there were probably only 15 people in the elevator- CLEARLY there was space for, I don't know...10 more?

One woman recovered enough to ask accusingly, "So, you are the enforcer?!?" As I pushed the button on the elevator and the doors began to close, I looked at her shamelessly and with as much bravado as I could muster, lied through my teeth, "Yes."

The doors closed.

I couldn't believe that had worked.  A couple of voices (I think the Middle Eastern guys) from behind thanked me.  The rest of the group rode upward in stunned silence.  As we dispersed into the main airport, I heard uproarious laughter from some of the other riders.  They must have been African, and I was happy that they were laughing instead of angry.

I have a master's degree in intercultural studies.  I knew that what I did was TOTALLY outside the realm of acceptable.  I just couldn't seem to muster up the gumption to care in that moment.  I just couldn't.

Hours 22-26: Trapped on the Tarmac
Boston, MA

The 15 hour flight from China to New York's JFK Airport was nearly finished.  I had survived, more or less in tact, thanks in no small part to the GLORIOUS blessing of having an empty seat next to me.  This was literally a gracious answer to prayer.

As we began our decent along the east coast, I noticed that, according to the little map on my personal monitor, we seemed to be taking a rather indirect path to New York.  A few minutes later a very hard-to-understand flight attendant announced that, due to "very terrible weather at the New York", we would be going to Boston, instead.

I gathered enough emotional energy to be unenthusiastic about this new turn of events.  I mentally tried to calculate how long it would take to re-book an entire 777 full of people who were in the wrong city.  I breathed the sigh of the defeated.  I had a 4 hour layover at JFK, but if we all had to be re-booked, there was no way I would make my connecting flight.  And to make it even more awesome, my final flight (4 of 4) was on a separate ticket, with a different airline.  That means that if I miss that flight, I will have to pay for a new ticket and my luggage situation will be nightmare-ish, since it was originally tagged all the way through to Fort Wayne.

I held onto the hope that they would send us back to NYC in time.  Four hours is a long time, after all.

After four incredibly frustrating hours with basically no information on what was going on, we finally did take off again, heading to JFK.  We touched down exactly five minutes before my connecting flight to Chicago was scheduled to leave.  We weren't even in the airport before I had missed my connection.

Awesome.

You know, just telling this story makes me feel tired.  I'm going to have make this a two-parter.  We still have three airports, 16 hours of awesome, a very disappointing experience with pizza, and luggage drama to cover.  I think we all need a break.

To be continued...