Elements of my travels

I am not one of those people who arrive early at the airport, not one of those who allow plenty of time to park in the cheap lot, take the shuttle, patiently stand in the security line, and stroll through the airport without so much as a single nerve unraveling over the chance of a missed flight or lost seat. No, not me. The less time I spend hanging out at the airport, the better. I like to check in, walk to my gate and get right on the plane. That requires precision timing that leaves no extra room for traffic, or rain, or too many this level full signs in the parking garage. It also leaves little time for my gate to be the last gate in the mile-long terminal. But at my home airport, it always seems to be just that. Are the other gates ever used or is this something just for me? That could be, because the gate numbers follow an illogical sequence. On my somewhat hot-footed way to Gate 36 this morning, I passed the 20s (logical), and 40s (I turned around to see if I could figure where I went wrong), and suddenly, Gates 37 and 38. And after 38? Oh look, there's 36. Tucked in at the end of the concourse without so much as a whisper to the fact that the numbers are for identification purposes only and do not follow any order that might be considered, well, orderly.

At the Alamo Car Rental near the Philadelphia airport, those yellow signs on the doors that say Caution, doors open out, are there for a reason. They do open out and the fact that you're standing right there and they will open into you, well that's why the signs are on the door. That's why the signs are bright yellow. I rolled my eyes, felt my face burn a bit with new reddish color, and asked myself to pay attention.

But I didn't listen.

This state has turnpikes. Every time I come here, those turnpikes get a good laugh at me. I always miss my exit. And then we're together for another 26 miles of rolling hills and old stone farm houses and barns painted red. Lovely, but this is not a vacation in Amish country. There's not a single place to turn around for 26 miles, meaning that I'm 52 miles out of my way. Mistakes on the turnpike are costly; you'll end up two area codes past your destination. At the toll booth in Reading (read that as Redding because the people who named half the places here apparently did not know how to spell), I looked at the friendly face in the toll booth and said I think I'm lost and need to turn around. He asked where I was going and when I told him, he laughed his response, Oh, you are lost. Thank you. And what did I do? I got right back onto the road in the direction I was previously headed and drove on for 13 more miles.

Thirteen miles down the road, I repeated the same toll booth conversation, and endured the same laughing response.

But I found the hotel. On the same avenue it always is, just beyond the same intersection.

In the bar last night, over beers with my British colleague, we discussed this Pennsylvania-induced inability to pay attention to signs. He had two hours sleep in the 20 hours of travel he made from Buenos Aires to here yesterday. On a napkin, from memory, he wrote directions for me to get to the office in the morning, and then tapped into his vision of me ending up in Boston, put his hand on mine and said, I think I'll cancel the hotel shuttle and just ride with you. That way you'll know where you're going.

I should have known yesterday morning that when Gate 36 followed Gate 38, it would portend to the kind of day where a British citizen on two hours of sleep has to give me directions to a place I've already been. Many times. In my own country no less.