The Traveling

Everything at work has to be a shit-show right before vacation. It is an obligatory shitty work week. Must be a part of Murphy’s Law. My last shift at the hospital before vacation was a hot mess; locked restraints were used and the crash cart was opened on the same shift. Bad News Bears. I had not even packed yet and I still figured out how to get a drink at the pub before beginning this journey. I was at the point that I just stopped faking it. When people asked how my day was, I simply stated “Terrible.” “How are you?” RBF and a response of “Not great. Not good at all.” When you are at the lowest of lows, it makes it difficult to get that last spark of energy to pack your luggage, or even think straight enough to bring the basics. I had washed clothes that were acceptable to bring. Those clothes went into the suitcase, added a toothbrush, phone charger and some shoes, and wah-lah, packed. I had gotten a solid 4 hours sleep prior to my 8.5-hour work day, so let’s begin the 12-hour journey from my house to my “home”-tel in New Orleans for the next 5 days. No sleep required?

MIDNIGHT

I drove from Peoria, Illinois to my older sister’s house in Bloomington, Illinois. At least I have a travel bud this time!!! I have completed many loner trips over the last two years, due to the single life and the repeating need for vacation throughout a stressful nursing career, most recently Tuscon, Arizona where I visited my grandparents. The drive from Bloomington to Chicago O’Hare International was next. We caught up on sister gossip: dating stories, bar mishaps, and the millennial struggle of needing roommates whilst simultaneously hating them. If you want to hear a humorous story over a beer next time we cross paths, just ask about the second-date-guy that opted to “quit cigarettes” to impress me, but also kept sneaking them from the bartender.

TWO AM

Of course, after chugging some coffee from a squishy paper straw, we stopped at a suburban BP gas station and tested our hamstrings (when the restroom smells like urine for days, you don’t let your butt touch the stool). At least they let us use the Lou without buying anything, even if it was a urine-drenched house of horrors.

FOUR AM

Finally, we arrived at Routes Parking, with a confusing valet and a lot of detailed instructions on how to find the shuttle pick up point on our way back from the trip (ahem, stop reminding me that I have to come back to Illinois in a few days). The shuttle driver warned us that New Orleans is going to feel 100 degrees and humid as hell tomorrow, but we were in denial and remained in our ignorant bliss for a while longer. This is when phlegm guy enters the picture. Slim Caucasian fellow in his 40s, chain-smoking cigarettes, featuring some bright blue and green hair strands sticking out of a tattered hat. Coughing, no, hacking. Hacking every few moments, like he needed to clear his throat of a huge loogie. It was that gurgling sound that tells a nurse their patient needs suctioned. Damn dude, take a break from chain-smoking. You NEED suctioned. The five-minute shuttle to O’Hare felt like hours with this dude, in constant anticipation of more phlegm-y hacks and more thoughts of needing to find a portable suction kit. Yankeur, this! Meanwhile, my sister Melissa’s face is a pale color, every cough brought a further-peaked complexion. Phlegm guy quickly went to the back of my mind as we pulled up to the O’Hare terminal drop-off zone: a spew of drunken bumper cars and mayhem. My anxiety now at a ten, I’m leaning my body this way and that, to metaphysically avoid the shuttle from being collided. Horns blaring like some poorly mixed EDM. Shuttle dude removed our luggage, pulling Melissa’s suitcase handle out from her bag. My bag out next, shuttle dude struggling to get my suitcase handle out (it is broken), he tried for a surprisingly long time. I would have to adjust to telling all the service folks in the next several scenes, “it is okay. It is broken.” A weird thing to apologize to me for, considering I am the heathen that broke it in the first place. I then had a weird mix of trying to roll my bag without the long handle, and carry the 40-pound bag around, along with my bookbag and purse. We found that if Melissa drove her suitcase next to mine, it was like a little hug that helped out. Needless to say, I stubbed my suitcase on my knee, toes, and ankle far too many times. *frustrations of a broken suitcase handle*

FIVE AM

Luckily, after we arrived inside the airport, the security lines were all empty. We visited a kiosk to print our boarding passes and then got through TSA in five minutes. Laptop out of your bag, do you have any food, please remove your shoes and bulky clothing, full body scan, do you have anything in your pockets? No, you literally just did a full body scan, tap down all pockets anyway, luggage into “antimicrobial” bins, XRAY all your shit, good luck traveling but don’t have liquids over 4 oz as you will clearly make a liquid bomb, have a nice day.

SIX AM

The airport bar looks quite tempting, but instead we bought some McDonald’s orange juice and found L7; taking a seat on faux-leather, skimpily-padded metal row of chairs. Outlets! Next to each chair was a pair of outlets. Melissa tells me to plug in my phone to charge, but I quickly realize all the outlets are essentially “out of order.” Shouldn’t have expected electricity handouts from the Spirit waiting area. I popped a Benadryl 25 mg capsule, awaiting that neck-strained airplane nap. The banana-yellow plane lands and starts to un-board, or as they called it “deplaned”. People just kept coming. I had no previous idea of just how many people this plane seated. Easily the biggest plan I recall ever flying on. Last of the plane was a pale young lady, being wheelchaired out and holding a plastic bag to her mouth. Actively throwing up her stomach contents, but also acting dramatic as hell. Wanting the airport staff to drive her to a booth to find a hotel and acting entitled to get there now, despite it not being open for another hour. Next I see an EMT basic, donned in blue gloves, entering the plane. Way to puke all over the cabin, Karen.

Preboarding and boarding Zone 1 was supposed to start at approximately 0635, but of course it was delayed (thanks again, Karen). Meanwhile, several five-year-old children were energetically running around L7, cutting off an elderly woman being transported by airport staff elsewhere. The older lady was amicable, smiling at the youngens, but my sleepless self was already annoyed. Just wait, as all five-year-olds preboard the plane in front of my Zone 1 self. The mother was a twenty-something laissez faire type, without concern of the toddlers running in circles and laughing hysterically. I was selfishly rolling my eyes, as I saw where this was headed. Everytime I caught myself drifting into a much-needed nap, the young boys were kicking the tray tables, up and down. Click-clack-CLACK, click-clack-CLACK! For the entirety of the 2 hour and 21 minute flight. My phone was already starting to dying, so I opted out of playing music during the flight. It was a mistake, but hey, hindsight is 20/20.

TEN AM

We landed safely and found our way to Baggage Claim 6, to the pick up point for app rides and then caught an Uber. We arrived to the hotel by 1030, but of course check-in was not until 4 pm. Melissa had called the hotel prior to leaving, and they had mentioned early check-in being likely. The Uber drove past the St. Louis Cemetery and then next to the French Quarter. One block from Canal Street, we are staying at the haunted Pelham Hotel.

The concierge was a charismatic and youthful woman, with natural humor and a nack for guiding tourisits to good eats. She allowed us to “freshen up” in the lobby bathroom and our luggage got locked into a large closet. She wrote down our phone number and ensured us she would call when a room was ready. She suggested we eat at Mother’s, a classic homestyle family restaurant serving Cajun and Creole favorites.

…