Where's My Luggage?

Vanished Into Thin Air

Hate me if you must, but no airline has ever lost my luggage.  When I drop off my bags at the entrance to the airport, they miraculously appear at my final destination.  Even the time I flew five flights in a single day (see “Swimming in Alphabet Soup” from February 2012), my suitcase showed up on the baggage carousel.  Granted, more often than not I carry on everything I need, and rely on the USPS to deliver a box of pre-shipped extras to my hotel in advance of my arrival so my odds of a successful reunion with my belongings garner higher returns.  Regardless, I pack frugally and travel similarly, so the contents of my baggage are critical, and having everything with me when I arrive allows my expeditions to begin immediately upon arrival.

Of course there was the one time my son left a book in the seat pocket.  He didn’t deplane, he just changed seats on the flight to help a family traveling together.  After takeoff when he went back to retrieve his book, the family had given it to the flight attendant.  The flight attendant gave it to the gate in Chicago before closing the doors, thinking it belonged to the previous flight’s passenger.  And from there, the book vanished.  The logical chain of events would be that the book went from the Chicago gate to a main location in Midway International Airport, then on to a central location for the airline.  Yet once the book left the plane, it dematerialized.  How exactly does that happen?

Did You Look In Alabama?

After visiting friends in Birmingham we decide to swing by a little store in Scottsboro, Alabama, featured on CBS Sunday Morning. Bill Geist profiled the little specialty shop where shoppers can find just about anything from swimming trunks to a wedding dress, with a wide selection of cameras, CDs, and a complete, all-weather wardrobe.  The Unclaimed Baggage Center sells just about everything the airlines have tired of possessing.  Vast lots of homeless suitcases with tragically abandoned, and occasionally outdated, clothing and assorted personal effects become thrift-shop fodder for us and we wander through the bizarre warehouse with no particular purpose.

Son #1 purchases his first thirty-five millimeter camera at the expense of its original sad owner who most likely has moved on to a digital version of his or her previous model.  Son #2 selects a brown, felt fedora appropriately labeled with the name of the movie character whose likeness often dons similar apparel.  As for me, I am content to bring home a few compact discs that have long since disappeared from music stores of soundtracks from movies that have long since disappeared from theaters.  Maybe one day when passing northward near Chattanooga, Tennessee, we again will dip into the plenty of abandoned possessions and begin a new chapter for otherwise homeless objects.  Perhaps we will find a missing biography of John Paul Jones last seen in the Windy City at gate A11.

Springtime in Chicago

A Matter of Semantics

Springtime is the season of blossoms and light green leaves bursting out of the branches of the hearty trees that stood tall during the winter.  Brightly-colored sprouts push out of the soil and offer yellow daffodils and white tulips and the world awakes from its cold slumber.  Yet, “spring” is a relative term.  In Florida, Spring Break implies adult refreshment on a sunny, sandy beach, but when Son #2 and I headed to the Windy City for his Spring Break, Mother Nature clearly had forgotten to advise Northern Illinois of the change in season.  Admittedly, compared to late January, the version of winter we experienced more accurately may be described as a Midwestern Spring, but again, it’s all relative.

Winter coats felt like a must, and it wasn’t just us thin-blooded southerners.  The subways were awash in dark peacoats and hunched-over passengers trying to keep the wind away when the El’s car doors opened and whisked in more passengers and more chill.  The rain felt frigidly cold on our skin, even if it didn’t accumulate along the sidewalks as a sloshy, snowy mix.  Despite the scarves and hats and boots and layers in which we wrapped ourselves, the wind found our weather-wear weaknesses and exposed us to its twisting, blustering madness.  This gloomy drizzle defined Chicago’s version of spring, but it just wasn’t the version of spring I excitedly anticipate.

Hope for the Season

So off we set into the city where we discover our own springtime in the paintings and sculptures of the art museum, and as we force our extended family to hold hands playfully through the galleries recreating a Ferris Bueller field trip.  We submerge ourselves in the U-Boat exhibit at the Museum of Science and Industry and laugh at the crowd of tourists waiting for an elevator, yet failing to press the call button.  We take an express elevator to the top of the Willis Tower (even though everyone on the planet knows it as the Sears Tower), and witness for ourselves a view across Lake Michigan, northward into Wisconsin, and south into the farming heartland.  From this vantage, it seems perfectly obvious that despite Old Man Winter’s best attempt to disguise the city, spring has crept into the City of the Big Shoulders.

And then we find the proof in a green lawn with the hint of fresh growth sprouting on the ivy of the far brick wall.  Despite the thermometer’s reading, the spirit of awakening and rebirth arrives in the hopes of Cubs fans gathering at Wrigley Field for the first game of the season.  The joyous exuberance of being back in the cozy field, ball hawks chasing the fly balls from batting practice, t-shirts, pennants, and players faces on a myriad of trading cards for sale from dozens of make-shift

stores line the pathway from the red line to the gates.  And there the famous sign proclaims, “Welcome to Opening Day!”  Robert Redford himself takes the mound and hurls his Roy Hobbs pitch towards home plate.  The crowd removes their well-worn, beloved Cubbie caps for the singing of the national anthem, and suddenly it is springtime in Chicago.  Maybe this is the year that the notorious streak without a Series win fades away and this first day, this beginning of a new season, this sign of springtime arriving after the brutal winter brings a fresh lightness of spirit and hope for the beloved boys of summer.

The Subway

Florida’s Water Table

Florida has no basements, no tunnels, and no subways.  The water table, the level at which water is present underground, makes these subterranean constructs impossible.  Most office complexes and housing developments include retaining ponds to collect the water that otherwise sits on the property.  The first time Son #1 rode the subway in Washington, DC, he found the process of moving below ground unnerving and unlike any he had experienced.  Eventually, the “bing bing” chiming of the signals as the doors opened and closed brought enough amusement to distract him.

My first solo experience without a rental car, also courtesy of the DC public transportation system, included a bus from Baltimore-Washington Airport, the Green Line into the center of the nation’s capital and then a swap onto the Blue Line under the Potomac into Arlington.  It’s not that I never used public transportation (I used to ride the city bus to and from high school), but combining air travel, shuttle buses, and multi-colored subways without any previous frame of reference seemed gutsy for a suburbanite like me.  In hindsight, the rest of the world calls my adventure “commuting.”  Florida’s water table does not garner any points with the rest of the country’s metropolis populations.

Uniforms and Anthems

So now I feel confident to bust a move in other major cities.  In Chicago Son #2 and I also use the EL to get from Midway to the Loop.  Other than the stairs being a bit of a huff and puff for us with our luggage in tow, we manage to switch through the rainbow of stations that get us across the street from our hotel.  But on each train, we notice a theme: peacoats.  As if the entire city of Chicago has a uniform; everyone wears them, with relatively few trench coats interspersed and virtually no color to be seen.  Clearly my magenta double-breasted ensemble identified me as a tourist even more than my suitcase.  And just to show my comfort level with my public transportation skills, I am less concerned with the stops and more concerned with the attire.  I am easing into this subway flow.

By the time I traverse Boston’s subway system, I ride like a pro.  Before I even get to the subway station at Logan, my fellow shuttle passenger asks for route assistance.  Of course, I don’t find it too difficult to discern that the bus to the subway is not the Blue Line, so consider the source.  Nevertheless, I find myself already on the train while he still navigates the purchase of his fare.  But the final proof of my mastery of the big-city travel comes after the Red Sox loss when thousands of loyal fans cheerfully wait for the three single-lane stalls through which each person must pass.  Singing “Sweet Caroline” in chorus and enjoying their commute as if they were still downing a brew in Fenway, I sing along because DC, Chicago, and Boston help me earn my cross-town commuter stripes.

You Go, Girl

Don’t Count Your Chickens

An evening flight into St. Louis – that’s all I want.  I have flown over the Gateway Arch at dusk several times, but I imagine the airline has changed its itineraries since my last evening arrival.  My final destination lies across the Mississippi River, so I opt for a flight to Chicago with an early morning train the next day.  Having experienced Amtrak (see “Overnight On The Amtrak” from April 2012), I am game for a three-hour ride on the Lincoln Service to the Illinois capital, and a good night’s sleep in the City of the Big Shoulders couldn’t hurt either.

But after three hours in the airport waiting for a possible departure time, I eagerly board the last flight of the night.  The pilot brags that the airplane has been loaded with just enough fuel for an expeditious flight after an evening of delays courtesy of summer storms in the Windy City.  She even counts the flight out to the exact number of minutes ensuring her signing our jinx warrant.  About two-thirds of the way towards our destination, the flight attendants serve a big slice of humble pie to the passengers on behalf of the captain announcing the flight needs to swing out west of Chicago to avoid the weather heading eastward, but the plane does not have enough fuel to make that happen.  Instead, we are going to fuel up in St. Louis.

Where I Want To Be 

To be frank, I have no business piloting any aircraft because wind speed, lift, yaw, and all those other aerospace terms do not sink into my head, and the advanced algebra needed to figure out those high-tech equations are too much for me.  But I do know it is advisable to have enough fuel to circle an airport just in case of situations like this.  I expect the eager flight crew, quite possibly based in Chicago, hoped to be home on a Friday night, too.  In fact, the flight would not make it to Chicago for another five hours after touching down in St. Louis.  My skills as a driver and the simple math required to operate an automobile tell me that the driving distance to

Chicago from St. Louis equals roughly five hours.  Irony makes me chuckle.

When we land at Lambert Field, I expect a fuel truck to meet us near the terminal, and then send us on our way, so when we taxi to a gate and the plane doors open, I see the writing on the fuselage that this would be a longer stop than originally communicated.  The flight attendants, most likely still embarrassed at having to cover for the pilot’s shortsightedness, hide around the bulkhead just peeking out when they absolutely must, like when I press my call button for example.  The look of irritation as the flight attendant approaches seems obvious.  When I explain that I really want to be in St. Louis, but the airline had no evening flights, she asks if I want to get off the plane.  I jump at the chance.  After confirming I have no checked luggage, she lets me exit the aircraft to the dismay of every other passenger.  I unbuckle my seat belt with a less-than-official, “You go, girl,” from the flight attendant.  And I do, since this is where I want to be anyway.