The ATL

A few weeks ago I wrote this happy-go-lucky post about being delayed in Asheville. There were stories of laughs with the airport bartender and stranded travelers. Tonight, all I have to say is, “Fuck you Atlanta.” Three times this summer you have screwed up my plans. I hate you. I strongly disliked you in June but in July, I HATE YOU.  I hate your southern accents, your sweet tea and your restaurants that serve heart attack specials. I didn’t even want to come to your stupid airport. I was supposed to go from Albany to Newark to Seattle, but another southern town screwed that up and I would miss my connection in Newark. That is how much I hate you Atlanta, I would rather spend time in New Jersey than with you.

Here was my conversation with the United Airlines Representative:

Him: We can put you on a Delta flight through Atlanta

Me: Atlanta? Can’t you put me through Chicago or Denver or Minneapolis?

(My Dad: Hey, it looks like there are storms headed towards Atlanta)

Him: Nothing available through Chicago

Me: Aren’t there storms headed to Atlanta?

Him: No Ma’am the only storms are in Houston. I booked you on the Atlanta flight

Me: Silence

(My Dad: laughs)

So, here it is 10:58 at night and I am sitting on the floor and wondering why on earth someone picked out this carpet. There isn’t even a pattern. It looks like some 3-year-old cut up a bunch of carpet pieces and put them together. Okay, that’s not fair to 3-year-olds. Every time I get up to check the departure time it changes so I have stopped checking in hope that it will remain constant. So far it’s been 9:05, 9:45, 10:20, 10:55, 11:07, 11:30, 12:15, 12:45, and last time I checked 1:02. I am sure it has changed since then but I refuse to give in.

I have done everything possible to pass the time. I bought some Atlanta postcards and wrote them out bitching to friends about being stuck in the Dirty South. I spent an hour wandering around a tiny bookstore. I ate too many snacks. I avoided the airport bar because by the time my flight is ready to leave I will be bombed and they probably wouldn’t let me board anyway. I have walked up and down the entire B concourse so much that I should get a medal and a free t-shirt. The gate next to me is boarding now, Birmingham, Alabama. I am so delusional at this point that I actually just thought about going to Birmingham. I can’t get the “free” wifi to work so I can’t watch Netflix or stalk people on the Facebook. I am sick of my ipod. If I start to read Phantom of the Opera (who buys that at an airport bookstore?) I’ll fall asleep. Side note: If the over/under on the number of women reading 50 Shades of Gray was 1,000, I would bet the over. Every time I see one of them they have this really annoying look on their face. I want some dude to pull out a playboy magazine and sit around flipping through it and see what kind of looks people give him. I have had too many, “where y’all headed” conversations. I lied to the last 3 people. I told one of them I was going to Iceland, another Albuquerque and the most recently to Des Moines, Iowa for an international farmers convention on corn. I should be an actress.  Speaking of actresses, my flight attendant was a dead ringer for Jennifer Aniston. She looked so much like her I thought it was part of one of those shows where celebrities act like real people. Maybe I should go buy an US Weekly and catch up on my pop culture. What I really need is a naked midget to run though the terminal with hapless security guards chasing after him. That would pass the time.  

Okay, I think I got all the bitching out of my system. Thunderstorms happen and I know that I would much rather sit here than be riding in a big metal thing in the sky with lightening on the prowl. I would like to call up that representative from United Airlines and say, "My Dad's a better weather predictor than you are" but that might not be the best example of my maturity. Logically, I know it’s not you’re fault Atlanta, but I’m not going to forgive you. Just ask Chipper Jones, three strikes and you’re out.

Update: It is 7:46 am EST and I have finally arrived at the airport hotel in Seattle. My luggage is soaking wet. Luckily, most of my clothes are in waterproof stuff sacks but I had to wring out the few that were not. My pack (which has a rain cover on) is drenched. I think someone left it lying face down with the rain cover on the ground during a torrential downpour and the back of it just got saturated. There is nothing like carrying around a 40 lb backpack with soaking wet straps. This trip is not starting off on the right foot but I am optimistic that after a nap things will be better. If not, I hear Portland is big on the beer.