The Great Migration (part 1)

So I'm in Pittsburgh.

No it's not quite Utah, but come on! One step at a time people! One step at a time!

Let me tell you a story about my trip to Pittsburgh. It's a long one. Well, not exactly, but it was pretty miserable. I got to the airport an hour and a half early like you're supposed to, having checked out the Southwest Airlines website regarding their shipping policies for bicycles. My father and I both checked, and neither of us could glean any more information other than that there was a fifty dollar shipping fee. "Alright," we said, no problem fifty bucks sounds reasonable.

So I got to the airport with my bicycle, and tried to check the thing in. The woman behind the counter was this totally cranky Asian bitch, who totally dispassionately told me that there was no way I could get my bicycle onto the plane. No way, no how. Totally Emerald City style "No way, no how." I was told I needed a special box for said bicycle.

Apparently, it was a short cab ride away at the Fed Ex store. A $40.00 cab ride away. I get there, and they do not sell the boxes I need. I burst into tears. The woman behind the counter tells me that they can give me two very large boxes to cut up and tape together. I get them back to the airport, and start hacking away. I finally get the bike into the (very) makeshift box.

At this point, however, I have missed the plane. The next flight is at 4:30. It is 11:00. That's 5 1/2 hours. To sit. At the airport.

5 1/2 hours later, I get on the plane. I fly to Baltimore. I get there, and I don't have anywhere to go for three more hours. I get something to eat, and in a state of serendipity, Baltimore is really REALLY into Bloody Marys. So I have a couple. And some crab cakes. And it is amazing.

I get on my last plane at 8:25 (14 1/2 hours since I got up, 11 1/2 hours since I got to the airport). The woman next to me is gassier than I care to think about, but I eventually black out.

I get home (finally) at 11:00 at night. 14 hours since I got to the airport. 14 hours to make what should be an hour and a half flight.

Dear God in heaven. All I can say is at least I'm not in a fucking covered wagon. Worse yet, pulling a handcart.

-Rachael