More Airport Adventures

24 hours.

That’s how long I’ve been wearing a bra. And pants.

Twenty four solid nonstop continuous hours of bra. And pants wearing.

I did the math. Including time change calculations and shit.

That’s how upsetting this situation is.

I did time change math.

At 3:30am. Yesterday. Utah time. I got an alert on my phone. From American Airlines. Saying our flight was delayed.

And I rolled over and told Fall Risk.

And she said, in a very lucid voice, and I quote, “oh that’s fine. It’s not a big deal.”

Then apparently. At 5am. When she was actually awake. While I was dressing myself. She was processing the delay.

“Yeah, so we’re not gonna make our connecting flight in Charlotte.”

But you said…

“Oh I definitely wasn’t awake during that conversation.”

Fuck.

Ok.

So we started searching for our alternative options.

And here’s what we found.

There are zero flights out of Charlotte International Airport after 8pm.

There are zero rental cars available on a Saturday night.

We found zero train tickets or bus routes from Charlotte to Roanoke.

There are zero hotel rooms available in Charlotte. Because of fucking NASCAR.

There are zero comfortable sitting, lying, reclining, or standing options in Charlotte International Airport.

We did realize how much less shitty our jobs in education and healthcare are. Than airline customer service.

And even though the former retail worker in me wanted to be super sweet to the poor woman just doing her best among the throng of deplaned customers. When I asked for at least a food voucher. This chick handed me a voucher. For twelve dollars.

I’m sorry, is this…supposed to feed me…for an entire night?

Ma’am, I’ve only had one meal today. And no snacks. Except for the package of bullshit airplane cookies. And the second pack from the woman beside me who was actually trying to hand them back to the flight attendant.

Until she saw the incredulous look in my eye.

“…Oh. Do you want these?”

Bitch, yes.

My incredulous eyes didn’t work on customer service chick, though.

So Fall Risk and I take our bullshit $12 food vouchers. And begin to wander the International airport. In search of food.

At 8pm.

On a Saturday night.

And every fucking restaurant was closed.

And wouldn’t reopen until at least 6am.

Do these people not understand how many homicides I could commit in that time???

Luckily, the CNBC stored was open. And I don’t even understand why CNBC has a fucking snack store in the airport. But they had food. So I was happy.

Until late middle aged white dude named Jay Z said, “I can’t help but notice. Is that a meal voucher in your hand?”

Why yes, Jay Z. It is a meal voucher. Why do you…

Fuck.

“Yeah, we don’t accept those here. Those are only good at the restaurants. That are all closed.”

Hey, thanks.

Whatever.

That bullshit voucher would’ve only paid for one of my items anyway.

And Jay Z directed us to what he deemed to be the most comfortable terminal in which to spend the night.

Which I now suspect is not an actual thing.

Because fuck.

I really thought, at one point, hey. This won’t be bad. I’ll have an entire night to read and write. I could finish this book I just started. This could be great.

No.

Reading. And writing. Are impossible under these conditions.

I managed some yoga.

Until I realized that probably the best way to get scabies. Or bed bugs. Or Covid. Is by rolling around on the floor of an international airport.

Because I’ve been here all night.

They don’t vacuum these bitches. They sure as fuck don’t sanitize them.

They just bring those dirty ass brooms around to spread the filth around a bit and sweep up the big chunks.

But I did at least pack a pair of sweatpants into my carry on bag.

Poor Fall Risk is still in jeans.

But also?

(No I’m not done complaining.)

The air conditioning has been running non fucking stop all damn night.

We. Are. Cold.

I’m in a hoodie and sweatpants. And I’m fucking freezing.

In fact.

Yep.

Just went and put a pair of leggings on under my sweatpants.

Now I’m wearing a bra. And TWO pairs of pants.

And there is no food to be had. Anywhere.

This is the stuff of my nightmares.

I don’t ever.

Ever.

Ever ever ever ever.

Want to come back to Charlotte.

Ever again.

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