Trips rarely go smoothly, but this one takes the cake.
TheDaily Aztec staffers Steve Mullins, Greg Lithgoe and myself were onour way to Wyoming to cover Saturday’s SDSU/Wyoming football game atWar Memorial Stadium. I expected a few bumps in the road, but littledid I know the rage and indignation I’d feel toward airports, rentalcar agencies and motels in a single day.
Where to begin?
Motor vehicle drivers in San Diego never cease to amaze me. Itseems everybody forgets how to drive when it rains. Interstate 8 wasa mess at 8:30 a.m., which isn’t usually the case at that hour.
Our flight was at 10 a.m. We were supposed to be at the airport anhour before. Yet there we were, arriving at Lithgoe’s apartment at9:10.
Got back on I-8 and arrived at the Park and Ride at 9:22. Time wasrunning out. Often in morning flights, the plane begins boarding 20minutes before takeoff to insure on-time departure. Fortunately, ourairliner wasn’t fanatical about punctuality.
Our flight took off at 1:45 p.m. That’s right, three hours and 45minutes late.
Supposedly there was a crucial part in the airplane that wasdefective and had to be replaced. Now I’m not unreasonable; I knowmechanical failures happen. I’m glad they detected it before we tookoff. I don’t want to die.
Certainly they could just get another part, install it, and we’dbe out of there after an hour’s delay.
Nope.
A part had to be flown in from Phoenix. There were none on hand.How do you run a business with no spare parts on the premises?
Finally, it was received and installed. It was 1:25. We were allbuckled up and ready to go. But wait.
“Ladies and gentlemen we will take off momentarily … after wefinish refueling the plane.”
#@$%!!!
Something tells me part of the delay was because some employee hadto have their cranium surgically removed from their rectum.
Helter skelter.
That was the scene after landing in Phoenix at 2:44. Ourconnecting flight to Denver was rescheduled to 2:59. Needless to say,we were cutting it close.
We jam out of the plane and find out our gate is on the other sideof the airport.
It may as well have been Timbuktu.
We raced through the terminal just in time to board. We catch ourbreath as we give our ticket to the agent and squeeze throughout theplane in search of row 25.
The aircraft had only 22.
#@$%!!!
Back to the counter we went. They said we were supposed to be onthe flight and that we needed to find empty seats. Luckily, I locatedone in the first row of coach — complete with adequate leg room –and set my backpack down to save it.
One problem: my backpack had to be stowed, and since there was noseat in front of me, that meant it had to go in the overhead racks.
It was a minor setback, considering what we’d already beenthrough, so I again squeezed my way to the midpoint of the plane toan empty overhead rack. I threw my backpack in, turned around andnoticed a wily old man had taken my seat.
Wisely avoiding confrontation and likely arrest, I decided to grabthe closest seat and fumed to myself.
Despite the troubles, good times prevailed after a complimentarydrink and good conversation during the flight. Yet somehow I knewthis parade of ineptness was not over.
It came as no surprise my suitcase did not show up on thecarousel. If we barely made the flight, how the hell was my bagsupposed to make it?
I reported it to authorities and headed to the rental car counter.Since they only hold reservations for two hours, I was expectingproblems. Of course there was a problem, but it wasn’t caravailability.
When I made arrangements a week prior, I was told the daily ratewas $36.88. There was a slight discrepancy.
The lady at the counter said $59.98.
#@$%!!!
It’s not like I had a choice. They pretty much had me by theballs. Either pay the amount or walk to Laramie — a good 180 milesaway.
So, I took it in the rear. After accounting for the underage andadditional driver fees, the tab resembled the median income of manydeveloping countries.
At 9 p.m. my psyche had reached its nadir. I had to do something.So I left in search of the one thing that could transcend myfrustration, ease my mind and lift my spirits.
Alcohol.
I bought a bottle of Bacardi rum, with all intentions of finishingit, yet completed nary a drink.
Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. That’s a bunch of B.S., right?What writer worth his salt doesn’t get drunk on a road trip?
I kid you not. My mind, fatigued from the day’s plight, had takenover my body and it needed rest. I slept off and on until 1:15 a.m.,when my bag finally found its rightful owner.
There is so much more to be told, but studies show, at this pointof the column, your attention span is waning. So you won’t hear indetail about the guy with the cell phone outside the motel withunmarked rooms and appearances by ladies with revealing clothing in30-degree temperatures and random door knocks at 1:45 in the morning.
You also won’t read the anecdote about the press box’scomplimentary chili and the one-hole bathroom with a defective lock.
Yes, this trip was one for the books.
David is a senior and Sports Editor of The Daily Aztec. He can bereached at dcordero2@collegeclub.com.
