PDX - Airport One

“It’s the wind on the wings of a diving dove -

 You’d better listen for the laugh of love.”

                                                                           Bruce Cockburn

It has been hard for me to sit down and begin to write about the craziness of this human experience, especially in the shadow of the misery inflicted on the families in Roseburg yesterday.  It will be a long time before they will laugh out loud again, a few may never do it again.  It saddens me.  Laughter is as essential as breathing.  It is the balancing element to the pain and fear we inhale every day.  It is the weapon I use in the face of the gathering darkness, this little light of mine, and I’m going to let it shine. 

DP

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My decision to move to Panama was one made not by careful planning, research, and deduction, but because…well, remember the scene in Forrest Gump when he just starts running?  Not the “Run Forrest, Run” scene, that’s just the set up for later in life when he starts running and just keeps running - for three years.  And how when he finally stops running he can’t remember why he started running in the first place?  That’s not why I moved to Panama.

Not me

For whatever reason I decided that now was the right time to leave, it clearly wasn't.  Just two days before my departure I came down with a severe head cold.  I’m talking full-on, snot-o-rama - dis an dat head cold.  I am today, still reeling from the effects of mucus membrane...brain, honking and hocking constantly.  But four days ago I felt even worse, but at 4:30 in the morning I gathered up my life, which I crammed into two 50 pound suitcases and a guitar case, picked up my best girl, Jenny, ah, I mean Betty, and trickled out of town. 

 It almost sounds romantic, doesn't it?  It wasn’t.

First let me explain why, from the moment I entered the airport,  things went downhill rapidly.  The two suitcases I decided to bring could not have been more awkward to maneuver if they had been giant rubber bladders filled with 100 pounds of mayonnaise.  No, unfortunately that was my head. 

 One of the suitcases was a hard plastic job which I chose for its sturdiness because I packed my desktop computer, along with its miscellaneous peripherals in it.  It had a handle that popped up on the side and two big wheels to make it easy to pull along as you whiz

effortlessly through the bustling, envious crowds at the airport.  But, weighing in at 49 pounds 10 ounces, most of it on one side, the 70’s style traveler was very easy to tip over.

The other suitcase I chose to bring along was a big, bulky, canvas-like bag with two tiny wheels on one end and a skinny, extendable handle on the other.  In between was a bag that zipped up.  So I crammed as much stuff into its belly as I could without violating the 50 pound limit allowed for checked bags.

  

Have you ever seen a really fat guy riding a tricycle? Of course you have.  We all have. But, have you ever seen him try to turn?  No you haven’t – and for good reason.  For if he did he would simply topple over, because the two little wheels on the back of the trike are not designed for a big fat guy whose weight suddenly shifts. 

And, if he is really fat, his huge flabby ass would rub against those little wheels too, making any forward motion nearly impossible without intense effort.  THAT was my second suitcase.

Each of the two suitcases, if carefully packed with a reasonable amount of travel paraphernalia, would, indeed be a breeze to walk through an empty airport with.  Especially if (and I want to be clear here) you have nothing else to carry.  I did not have that luxury. 

Remember – I had a guitar case to carry.  Oh yeah, and a little diva named Betty, who wanted to be in the airport less than I did.

  “They do have luggage carts” you say.  And I reply, “Yes, they are helpful getting your luggage into the airport.” 

But, as you may, or may not know, you cannot take those carts through the Disneyland Adventure check-in lines.  There isn’t enough room to navigate the multiple twists and switchbacks which have been carefully designed by aliens who will never have to walk through them. 

So, there I stood, forty miles or so away from the check-in counter, with a skitzy dog on a leash, a guitar case in my hand, a fifty pound, top heavy suitcase, the’ fat guy on a tricycle’ suitcase (also weighing 50 lbs.), and a sloshing bag of mayonnaise balanced on my neck (also weighing 50 lbs.)
 

Moving in small, manageable segments, my guitar first, then going back for one suitcase at a time and bringing them forward (I tried dragging Betty on the leash and carrying my guitar in the same hand – yeah, no), I was, through much effort, able to make slow and sufficient progress.

  Then the unthinkable happened!  Other people began to arrive in the line behind me.  For some reason this made Betty quite nervous and she began to dart around, left, right, between my legs, and behind me in order to avoid being crushed.  Every time the line moved, I'd go through my routine.  By the time I brought my last suitcase forward and untangled Betty, the line would have moved again, leaving an ugly gap between my camp and the people in front of me.  I tried different techniques, like pushing the suitcases along with my foot, but at 50 lbs. each – I almost blew out a knee.  So, I kicked my guitar around for a while, but It didn’t help the situation.  The line behind me began to grow, and they were all checking there watches and rolling their eyes!

Coupled with the fact that I was sick, the stress, both physical and emotional, began to cause my mayonnaise bag to sweat profusely. I finally abandoned my guitar and the plastic suitcase, and dragged the ‘fat guy’ and the diva up to the counter. 

  In order to bring a pet into Panama, you must have certificates, from your vet, which then must be sent and endorsed by the USDA, sent back to you, blah, blah, blah.  So I kept the documents, along with reservations and receipts, in a folder – a slick, plastic folder – that I also had to carry everywhere I went, shifting it from one hand to another and one armpit to another.

 

This folder held a document that my physician was kind enough to sign, which proclaimed Betty an emotional support animal.  This not only allowed her to fly for free, but also meant that she could ride on my lap.  All I had to do was present the document when I checked in at the American Airlines check-in counter. 

When I finally reached the counter, the young lady smiled and looked up.  I was pale, sweating, grunting, and coughing as I dragged ‘fat guy’ onto the scale with one arm while squeezing the life out of Betty with the other. The poor woman tried to be nonchalant, but clearly she was concerned that I may drop dead at any moment. When she looked at Betty (whose eyes were popping out more than usual) she said through a tight smile, “Oh. Look. A little doggy.”

I presented the form from my doctor and left to retrieve my guitar and other suitcase.  When I returned I was pleasantly surprised to not

see paramedics waiting with resuscitating paddles.  Instead, the attendant looked over the form, found it in order, and typed something into the computer at roughly 2,000 words a minute.  My two suitcases weighed in just ounces under 50 lbs. each. The guitar would be my one piece of carry-on baggage.  

 By then time was running out and she hurried through the rest of the ticketing process, and gave me my three boarding passes. Yes, in order to save a couple hundred dollars I chose a two stop route, thus extending the misery of air travel.  She rushed me off, huffing and puffing through the airport.  With the guitar case in one hand, and Betty, on her leash (her poor little legs a blur trying to keep up) in the other, and that stupid folder clinched against my side under my arm, we must have been a pitiful sight.

Now the adventure begins.        To be continued…