CONTINUED FROM PREVIOUS POST:
Getting a ride to the Thunderbird Hotel was just another excercise in theatrics, despite the fact that our luggage was not released to us. There weren’t enough shuttle buses until drivers from other hotels felt sorry for us and pitched in to help. Everyone agreed to tip them heavily.
So we are stuffed into the lobby of this David Lynch-ian hotel with stuffed grizzlies and Indian Chiefs staring down at us. A befuddled old man and his scared son are frantically assigning rooms to the mob. At this point, the group is bonded. We are living in a bad movie script, we tell each other; this isn’t really happening. Any second now, Steve Martin and John Candy will come walking through the door and we’ll simply tell them to join the line and get used to it. Delirium has set in and we are acting silly.
As it turns out, I couldn’t have hand-picked two finer people to share my sleeping space with. Carol, a 49-year-old Gloria Steinhem-look-a-like from Iowa, is trying to meet up with her husband who is conducting agricultural research in Moscow.
Robin, a 40-year-old ex-Army brat who resembles a brunette Cybill Shepard, is desperately anxious about reuniting with her French husband at their house in Mulhouse, France. She, unlike Carol and myself, is at the end of her trip after spending a week in Tucson clearing up the details of her previous life.
Carol is a psychologist, Robin is an English teacher and yet all three of us refer to ourselves as writers. Both are happily married, happily child-free and well-traveled; they are living their lives with their minds open, their hearts taken and their passports full. They are an inspiration to this 29-year-old and, after staying up the rest of the night talking, I tell them as such. If you are going to be in Hell, quality company sure helps.
After a much-needed sleep, we (a huge family now), swarm the hotel’s coffee shop, breakfast vouchers in hand, demanding to be fed. People visit from table to table:
“Ready for another go at it today?”
“How’d ya sleep?”
“Try the pancakes, they’re fantastic!”
“I woke up this morning and thought the whole things was a nightmare until I saw this ugly guy in the room,” said one fellow, gently teasing his new buddy, a French-Canadian heading to Portugal who offers a big smile.
Word is out, a plane (our plane? any plane!) is scheduled for take-off today at 4 p.m. After the leisurely breakfast, we retire to our rooms for more conversation and packing.
Later, we leave the glaring wild animals and Native American motif of the Thunderbird behind and take shuttle after shuttle to that most familiar airport. It’s plane #2 from the night before and the seating arrangement is still puzzle so the lines are long, again.
Northwest brass are there supposedly easing the process along. Big men with ties and walkie-talkies mumble codes to one another and I wonder if we’re all part of some secret government experiment. It’s all just too much and Robin begins to crack; her chin quivers and when tears appear, Robin moves her to a faraway seat while I hold her place in the queue.
Oddities continue. A handful of us, after reaching the counter for seat numbers, are told to stand off to the side. Helplessly, I watch Carol and Robin board while casting worried glances over their shoulders. Soon, all but 10 of us remain.
A letter of apology and a $200 travel voucher from Northwest offers no comfort. Today’s snafu seems to have something to do with our passport numbers – un-luck of the draw. We are a small but verbal group and eventaully, we are let through, one by one, after threats of wild disorder.
Another line at the doorway and I get a familiar whiff of tension coming from the cabin. When I move to the front, a hand stops me. A stewardess turns to Mary and says, “We’re full.”
Next … THE CONCLUSION!
