Airline purgatory (continued)

So there I was, strolling through O’Hare International, iPod happily piping Sufjan Steven’s “Chicago” into my ears and trying not to out and out laugh at the people standing in ridiculously long lines for their Starbucks.

I wandered to my gate, F4, and had a seat. I struck up a conversation with a guy who goes to a private university in Iowa and we hung out for a bit. After a while, I got up and wandered around a bit and looked again at the monitor.

C8.

My gate had been changed and NOBODY had said anything. Not cool.

Worse, my flight was scheduled to leave in less than an hour, giving me only 20 minutes to get to the gate before they started boarding. I took off, because gate C8 isn’t just in a different concourse than gate F4, it’s in another terminal, Terminal 1. As I was following the signs, I had to get on an escalator that was taking us underground. Off in the distance, about two-tenths of a mile away, was a terminal with one of the gates marked C18. I made it down the escalator, took the moving walkways and made it into Terminal 1, and then quickly to gate C8.

And then I found out my flight had been delayed a miserly 12 minutes because of the weather.

And then it was delayed again for another 30.

And another hour.

And finally another 30 minutes.

We were finally allowed to board the plane, where I came across another unfortunate truth of airline travel: Either you’re the fat guy, or you’re next to him.

Lo and behold, I was both.

Okay, the guy next to me wasn’t fat, but he was huge and bulky and probably could have broken me in half. Turns out he was Malaysian, extremely friendly and was a graduate of the University of Kentucky also, though several years before me. After a bout of musical chairs, one that left him on one side of the plane and myself on the other and his wife and daughter in the seats in front of him, we were all comfortably situated, just in time to start taxiing. I laid my head against the bulkhead to my right and immediately fell asleep and probably started snoring. I didn’t care (and still don’t). I was tired.

Somewhere in the sleep-haze, I heard the captain come on the intercom to give us the terrific news that we were being delayed on the tarmac for another 30 minutes or so because bad weather nearby had caused a backup in the takeoff line.

Whoopteedoo. I went back to sleep and an hour and a half later I was back in Lexington. An hour after that, I was in my bed, sound asleep.

And when I woke up, the real adventure began…

(a three part cliffhanger!? muhahahahahaha!)

Airline purgatory

CHICAGO — Coming home is never a cakewalk, but once I get there I can breathe a little easier.

As much as I love going to visit my dad, stepmom and brother, the whole time is incredibly stressful because my level of neuroticism increases at least 10 times. They’re perfectionists, and though this has been a good thing for me, I can’t handle just how edgy I tend to be when I’m around them. After about a week I start to get really, really nervous and irritable because I’m hair-trigger ready to get busted for leaving something in the wrong place or not doing something correctly. It’s not like they’re constantly badgering me, but it is more than I’m used to.

Anyway, I had a good time out there, and the travel to there wasn’t bad at all. The travel back, however…

I printed out my ticket at home, so when I showed up at the airport at 10:30 p.m. for the 11:50 red-eye, checking in took a grand total of 2 minutes. I was the only person at the security checkpoint, and getting scanned and checked took an unbelievable 90 seconds or so. Getting on the plane an hour later, easy as pie.

I had the aisle seat, and next to me was a very nervous looking middle-aged woman and against the window was a middle-aged man, who I assume was her husband, but I wasn’t sure. We had a full family behind us, complete with two very loud children, who as cute and funny as they were, needed a volume control and restraint harnesses.

“It’s not the noise. It’s the poking!” the lady beside me said in a strained “I’m-about-to-lose-my-mind” whisper.

About then the pilot came on the loudspeaker.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We apologize that we don’t have any pillows or blankets on this flight. We told our superiors that people flying on the Ted portion of the United flights might like those, but they didn’t listen to us, as usual.
If you’d like those things on your flight, you should tell them because they just don’t listen to us.”

(Those quotes are approximate, but accurately reflect what the pilot said)

I was floored. The pilot was just out-and-out railing on his employers, and I couldn’t help but think that either he a) doesn’t care, b) is about to retire, or c) has a job lined up somewhere else. My snide humor was in full swing and I quickly piped up in agreement with the pilot: “Ted is the end of United!” (with appropriate thanks to Chuck, who made that comment to me earlier), and I got a few chuckles out of it.

Miraculously, as the plane lifted off the ground, the demon-children fell silent and resumed an angelic status that they would not lose for the rest of the flight. It was ridiculous how quiet those children became. At one point, I almost asked one of them to just scream real loud in the middle of the flight to wake everyone right the heck up. Why? Because I’m a jerk like that.

Anyway, it seemed that pretty much everyone around me slept for most of the flight. Everyone except me. I was wide awake, which was nice when the drink/snack service came around. The flight attendant (I still have to fight the urge to call them “stews” as they used to be called) slipped me a pack of pretzels, which I quickly lost to the monster that must live on the floor of every airliner, because they were never seen again, like anything I’ve ever dropped on a plane. I asked her for the whole can of Diet Coke and she took on an apologetic look.

“We’re not allowed to give out the whole can. It’s against the rules because it’s supposed to keep costs down. I can give you two cups if you like.”

She was very sweet and pretty cute, and I can’t be mean to people in the service industries. I can be mean to their bosses, but not to the people on the front lines. I said that would be fine and immediately drank both cups down.

About halfway through the boring-as-anything flight, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“Don’t tell anyone!” said the flight attendant as she handed me a can of Diet Coke.

Awesome.

About an hour later we were approaching Chicago, about to do the whole descending thing, and the pilot comes on the speaker.

“Flight attendants, take your seat. Turbulence.”

What followed next was both completely terrifying and totally awesome. As we were flying through the clouds, the regular strobe flash of the plane’s navigational lights was reflected off the clouds. It looked like regular lightning flashes. Then a bright streak of hellishly blue lightning shot along the right side of the aircraft, the opposite side from me, and the whole plane shook.

“That was comforting,” I said out loud, still snarky.

The plane kept descending and the lady beside me was now awake, but had her headphones plugged in and turned up so loud, I could easily hear what she was listening to. She also had developed a steady rocking motion, like a scared kid. Then it hit me: She was terrified of flying. She would open her eyes every 20 seconds or so, glance around nervously, then close her eyes and go back to rocking. When our plane touched down, her eyes snapped open and she had this insane panic look. She managed to keep control and that was that.

Then the captain got on and started railing on the airline again.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain. We were supposed to have someone to meet us to open up the gate but the airline didn’t think we’d need that many people on duty this morning, so we’ve got to wait a little while…”

I figured that my bit of airline insanity was over, and that enough had gone wrong.

But I was wrong. Oh so wrong…

Shooting in the face of danger

As usual, I’ve gone and taken pictures again, and my doing it put me in mild peril.

I’m tired, so I’ll cut right to the chase (click for the big picture [pun intended]):

This shot was taken at ISO 200, F14, 18mm focal length, 6 seconds of shutter speed.

And then there was this one (with special thanks to my brother, who prodded me to take the tripod outside again):

This shot was taken at ISO 200, F16, 18mm focal length and 6 seconds of shutter speed.

I feel obliged to point out that 18mm of focal length is a hugely panoramic shot, and yet the lightning still spilled out of the frame. When I shot this, it was pretty much overhead, and once I got it, I ran inside. It was scary, but also awesome.

Kinda like me!

Bagged

So where was I? Ah, yes! I found an apartment.

Furnishing it, as it turns out, is the least of my problems. I shelled out $100 to a coworker at the newspaper, snagging a washer and dryer. I also got his coffee table and his entertainment center for another $100.

Last year when I worked as an intern in Owensboro, the only place that would offer me a lease for the three months I’d be there was an old apartment community that seemed to have been a retirement community in a previous life. It wasn’t bad, except for the fact that the place had the occasional daily processional of house centipedes, the non-functioning kitchen light and DOA garbage disposal and the air conditioner that leaked all over my small Persian rug. Then toss in the landlady who docked me almost half the deposit because she said I didn’t clean (I did) and that I broke the bed (the one that folded out of the wall-mounted particle board frame that was already damaged) and it was pretty much someplace I’ll never go back to.

So this time around I went to one of the rental agencies in town that I couldn’t afford such a short term lease from the first time around but which had plenty of properties around the ‘boro that are both affordable and not completely scary.

This time around it was a lot easier. First, they had to process my background check and credit report. Now this is one of those times where doing something stupid in college can actually be the best thing you can ever do. For the credit report, I mean, not the background check.

See, when I was a freshman, I filled out two credit card applications. One got me a free shirt. The other got me a half-off coupon on a pizza. Sounds like a complete rip-off, right? Wrong. I was approved for both cards and immediately hid the two somewhere in the house and quickly forgot about them. The unexpected side effect of this is that the long-standing good report I had from those two cards (since they always showed up in good standing since I never used them) is that my credit score is now on par with Dr. Dad’s, though Dr. Mom (being the overachiever that she is) has one even higher.

The result? When I came to the rental office the next day, I got a quick 25% off my deposit once my rental application was approved. WOOT.

The lady at the rental agency took me out to see one of the apartments in the complex, which I immediately liked. It’s a one-bedroom layout. The kitchen is roomy, has an electric range, dishwasher and refrigerator. The closets all had new wooden shelves and plenty of space. The apartment also had washer and dryer hookups and, most importantly, no sign of vermin.

Only one problem. It wasn’t going to be the place I was going to live in. Being inexperienced, I was okay with this, but Dr. Mom about lost her mind when I told her about it. So I took her advice. I stopped off at the newspaper, picked up some paperwork, and then went back to the rental office, played dumb and asked them to show me the place I would actually be living in. The leasing agent said she’d be out there to do inspections. In the meanwhile, I’d get to tool around town.

Now, let me tell you a little bit about Kentucky weather. It is bizarre in the extreme, to say the least. If you don’t like it, wait 10 minutes, as the local saying goes. Except that on Tuesday, it was 98 degrees, not counting the humidity. This time of year, I’m usually making fun of my father, who lives in Phoenix. But it was actually hotter in Owensboro than it was there, and that wasn’t even counting the humidity. I lost count of the times that I made the joke about probably bursting into flames the next time I’d walk outside.

So I went to Panera, got a cookie and drank about a gallon of raspberry iced tea. By that time, the leasing agent had gotten back to me and we went over to see my place, which looked just like the other, except the carpet was slightly more worn and there were some phone books and a Sharper Image catalog left behind. But in about two more weeks, it’ll be my place.

Gosh, that sounds weird. My place. Not just one that I’ll be in for a few months, but one that I’ll be living in.

Anyway, after stopping by the bank and getting out some cash for the deposit, I went back to the rental office to sign on the dotted line and pay the deposit.

“Ok, so your name is David?” the leasing agent said. And once again, I spelled out my name. Of course. Ugh.

“That’s an interesting name. What nationality is it?” she said after a moment.

“My dad’s Iranian,” I explained.

She looked at me for a second, and then, completely deadpann, said “Oh ok. So, are you a terrorist?”

This was one of those moments where it seemed like time stopped. All five or six people in the rental office turned and stared at me and looked as if they couldn’t figure out whether to laugh or be shocked. They all seemed to be thinking, “Did she REALLY just say that?”

I just laughed. “No. But I do get that a lot.”

This sort of thing happened to me a month and a half ago, when I was at a convenience store and a country-looking guy with a farmer’s tan smiled at me and said “Excuse me, amigo” so he could get by me.

I could get offended. I could be mad. But instead I think it’s funny. Why be mad when you can have a good time?

Editorializing

So it’s finally over. My internship came to a close and all was well.

But before I left, I did a few days in the Editorial section, where I got to be opinionated. There, I wrote this editorial and this editorial.

It was a subject I feel very strongly on, so I very much enjoyed the writing, even though editorials are unsigned.

Also, I found an apartment…

Editor’s note: Hah! Cliffhanger!

Be vewy, vewy quiet. I’m hunting apawtments.

The problem with the Elmer Fudd accent is that once I do it, I’m unable to stop doing it for a good 5-10 minutes.

Also, the funniest thing you can say in Fudd-ese is “Phiwips head scwewdwiver.”

Anyway, tomorrow I’m hopping in the car, driving three hours west and trying to get a place to live. Here’s hoping that apartment hunting this time is much easier. I’m actually 100 percent certain that it will be, seeing as how this time I won’t be hamstrung into a craptastic apartment complex because this time I can actually get a lease with a decent length.

I’m also working on co-opting my brother-in-law as moving help. I don’t really have that much stuff in my room, but it’s not the stuff in the room. It’s actually the stuff that I bought from a co-worker who is also moving and doesn’t want some of the stuff he’s got presently. Therefore, I have now become the proud owner of (imagine that I’m the announcer on The Price is Right):

– A washer and dryer! This old but still fabulous mismatched set still work great and will probably outlast any chances you have of female companionship.
– A new coffee table! This stylish glass table is perfect for a klutz like you. There’s no way you’ll ever break it. Ever. Seriously.
– A new entertainment center! Made out of sturdy wood and not that particle board crap, this stylish piece of furniture is the perfect reminder that you don’t watch TV.

Dr. Mom also pitched in with a couch and a couple of chairs.

So, for most of tomorrow you won’t be hearing from me, but since I’ll be on the road, I might do a vlog or two. I’ll also do a time-stamp format blog to give you the blow-by-blow action of my day. Will hilarity ensue?

Oh yes. Yes, it will.

Retraction

This isn’t necessarily an easy thing to do, but oh well.

Remember how I said I was going to change my byline?

Yeah, forget all that.

Chalk it up to the comments, the subtle threats I got from friends and family and the general air of “Dude, what?” that erupted after I posted my intention.

So here I am. I’m sticking with Dariush. Nobody remembers an Al, but a Dariush? He’s with you for life. And not just because he called you a “scuzbucket”* in kindergarten.

* This is actually a true story. I called a girl that in kindergarten (I learned it from my sisters, of course) and got 10 minutes in time-out, which is pretty much the worst thing ever for a hyperactive six-year-old. Years later in elementary school, the girl who I called that commented that she could never figure out why I did it. Maybe it was because she took the pointy wood block that would so often end up as a missile to be launched off the wood castle’s walls. Anyway, I apologized and still feel kind of bad for it. I say kind of because let’s face it, only scuzbuckets take the pointy blocks and use them for purely decorative, non-military purposes.