I
didn't think that there were people ruder than those I've met in my
son's carline at his school. I was wrong. The people in the “45
Minute Waiting Area” at the airport are by far worse.
What's
up with the 45 minutes anyway? Is that some magic time that
represents how early most people are? Does it mean that when a
flight arrives at a certain time, it's going to be 45 minutes until
your pick-up-ee is standing at the curb ready for said pick-up? Or
does it mean that there's some secret parking enforcement
surveillance that will come after 45 minutes and send you on your
way? Why not just call it the
“you-won't-find-a-spot-here-because-I-used-up-three-so-that-my-girlfriend-could-watch-the-planes-land
area”?
Or
we could call it the “yes, I see that you're signaling and about to
pull into that spot, so that's why I'm accelerating around you, will
cut you off, and take that spot. Or “the I don't know how to park,
and neither does the guy two spots away, so the spot between us will
only fit a motorcycle.” Or maybe it could be the “if I drive up
close enough to your bumper you'll move the extra 6” so that YOU'RE
on the guy in front of you's bumper and none of us can move, should
we get the magic call.” Pick one. Or name it all of them. Just
don't make me wait there again.
When
we finally did get the call (an hour after arriving), four cars had
to move because they'd parked us in. There wasn't a lot of room left
to maneuver. The parking lot had become like one of those 4x4
sliding puzzles where there are 15 tiles and you move them around to
put them in order, only someone shoved a 16th tile in
there and now nothing's moving...
(photo credit wikipedie free images)
The
fun wasn't over, though. After we picked up our friend, I was to
drive her car home. She'd injured herself on her trip and couldn't
walk. I also had to find that car. All was fine until I hit a dead
end at West M. I was going for West N. I'd been heading down the
alphabet from C just fine (I am rather familiar with the alphabet,
right Gary?). Then no N. I wandered around a bit. Reminded me of
that Seinfeld episode where Kramer is carrying the air-conditioner,
Elaine has the goldfish, and Jerry ends up urinating in public.
Finally
the airport parking enforcement (aHA! Please, head out to the
waiting area from hell and kick some of those yahoos outta there,
would ya'?) truck comes driving along. I flag them down and explain
that I need N but the garage ends with M. One of them turns to the
other and says,
“Do
we have an N now?”
“Yup,
it's in the other pod.”
“OK,
how do I get there?”
“Oh,
he'd better take you. It's kinda confusing. I'll stay here and
finish up.”
So
I get into the enforcement truck, and the man ATTEMPTS to help me
find her car. We drive around for quite a while until he figures out
how to get to “the other pod.” It's close by, but seeing it and
finding a road/path to it are two different things.
We
finally get over there, after several tries up and down the ramps,
and we actually find the car! I was so relieved, and thought that
the hard part of my day was over. But no, because the friend we
picked up ended up needing the ER, so that's where I spent the night.
But that's another post, if she'll let me. I was THIS close to
laying down on the tile floor at 4:30 a.m...I'm too old to stay up
that late. Especially after braving the waiting area, and the
parking garage, and worries about my friend's health. I need a
nap...
Do
you have any travel/airport/parking lot horror stories? Or would you
rather be in carline?
