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(Always) Coming HomeMay 30, 2006 On the way home: Madison (Dane County) airport, just before 7 a.m. Didn't need the 6 a.m. wakeup call; had one of those nights where you wake up every couple of hours to check the time. Bags already packed; piled in the last few things in the semidark, left the card keys on the table next to the tip for housekeeping, and tiptoed out. I had a roommate for the last night; she was still asleep. There were thunderstorms yesterday afternoon and once again all flights out of Chicago were cancelled, so while I was hanging around the lobby waiting for my supper companions con-goers were trickling back from the airport and making ad hoc sleeping arrangements for an unplanned extra night in Madison. I had an extra bed, an extra key, and a deep-rooted desire to save other people money they can't afford to spend. Hal and Liz and I went out in search of some nonpareil pizza that Hal recalled from previous WisCons. Liz had a car, so this was a serious expedition. The pizza was indeed excellent but the place didn't serve beer, so we headed for The Bar (that's really the name of the hotel bar) to redress the lack, graze on post-pizza food (I had onion soup), and talk feminism and science fiction while waving and being waved at. Day's first stroke of luck: Hotel shuttle runs to airport every hour on the hour, meaning 6 a.m. and 7 a.m. My plane was at 8:05 a.m. and a couple of people told me that 7 a.m. might be cutting it too close; 6 a.m. seemed too early, so (still having cash in my wallet, thanks to several friends whose support for the arts includes picking up meal tabs for shoestringing writers) I was resigned to taking a cab. But at 6:20 or so the 6 a.m. shuttle was still waiting for a pilot who, his colleagues assured us, couldn't get anywhere on time if his life depended on it. They were a jovial lot. One said he was flying to "Cincinnasty"; another told of a colleague who'd once hit a deer on an airport runway. Another con-departing passenger said, "Bet they never let him forget it either." Pilot: "Hey, he got promoted and went over to Delta!" Offloading at the airport the flight crew's luggage all looked alike and so did their caps. Pilot: "This hat's getting a little beat up." Me: "Want to trade?" Pilot looks approvingly at my summerweight tan-and-brown Greek fisherman's cap and says it wouldn't be a bad idea. Woman checking in ahead of me had a big wheeled suitcase (size of a small steamer trunk) that weighed 70 pounds, plus a box that I don't know what it weighed but it had to have been more than 5 pounds -- according to a nearby sign, 75 pounds was the maximum for checked baggage, and you had to pay a $25 surcharge for anything over 50. I worried briefly about my two, but it turns out that combined they weighed in at 39.4. No prob. Decided that having wheelie things has to be a temptation to pack more stuff into bigger suitcases. My personal rule is don't pack more than you can carry, but thanks to my book purchases my homeward load was pushing the limit: I could carry my suitcases, but not too far. I'm amazed at how much carry-on luggage people get away with these days, but after meeting so many people who flew in to Chicago on Thursday and had to take the bus to Madison because all flights were cancelled, I can see the point: most of them didn't get their checked baggage till the next day. Hal's bags went astray in Milwaukee on Wednesday and he didn't get them till yesterday. Other thing: omnipresent laptops. What are all these people doing?? How many of them are mainly trying to make sure no one sits down and starts talking to them? On the other hand, it would be cool to be sitting around blogging or writing or playing FreeCell in the airport. Contemplate value of being offline since Thursday morning: good. Had a blast. No noticeable withdrawal symptoms. Business guy across from me, talking on cell phone: "Juan? this is Stan. [Juan's recollection of Stan seems to be hazy.] You drove me [can't remember destination] last week. I'm coming in to La Guardia at 12:40. Do you have availability to pick me up?" Didn't hear whether Juan had availability or not. Loudspeaker: "Security is everyone's responsibility. To ensure that you have a pleasant passage through our airport, please keep your luggage in sight at all times." Speculated about the unpleasantness that might ensue if one turns one's back on one's luggage. Cleveland airport, Gate C-20, 10:40 a.m.
Islander, 4:30 p.m. What a string of luck! Flight reached Boston at 1:05 and I reclaimed my luggage in time to make the 1:30 bus to Woods Hole. Prospects dicey for catching 3:45 boat to Vineyard Haven, and the 5:00 docks at Oak Bluffs. (I live about 15 minutes' walk from the Vineyard Haven ferry dock; Oak Bluffs is three miles up the road. 'Nuff said.) Maybe there'd be a freight boat to VH in between? If not, I figured I'd call Elaine and see if she could meet me in OB. But when the bus hove in sight of the Woods Hole dock, lo! Islander was still in port. It was running late, and the bus driver said it would wait. (That's a welcome change from the old days -- I've watched ferries pull away just as the bus rolled to a stop, and buses take off while the ferry was in the harbor waiting for a freight boat to clear the dock.) So here I am on Islander's top deck, gliding toward Vineyard Haven through placid seas and under a hazy blue sky. One of the greatest things about living on Martha's Vineyard is coming home. God damn, it's a miracle everytime -- coming home. You're not going to take this from me, assholes. Phil Ochs's "Days of Decision" starts playing on the internal soundtrack:
I'm coming, Rhodry!
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