A Tale of a Girl Who Went to Atlanta Part 1--The Flight of Horror

Monday Morning Movie will be pushed to tomorrow

Hello, strangers!  It feels like it's been so long since I've been around the blogosphere.  It's hard to believe it hasn't even been a week.  But oh, what a week! 

It started with packing on Wednesday.  And me being the ever wise and scrupulous packer, I fit everything into two pieces of luggage (a regular bag and a garment bag) so that my husband and I could each have one thing to check (and therefore save some money).  I was amazing with my deft organizing skills!  No one in the history of the world had ever packed as well as me!  Clothes were in their proper place!  The toiletry bags were wedged in so neatly!  Even the victorian-style hat I'd trimmed all by myself to go with my dress the day of the wedding fit perfectly between my shorts and blankie.  Nothing could come against me!  I was on fire!

And then we got to the airport to check in.  Still, I was as happy as I could be.  We wouldn't have to pay to check any luggage because my husband and I only had one piece each!  This was all going to go perfectly!

So I slid my credit card through the machine and punched the buttons with vivacity.  How many checked bags?  Only two, I say!

...

...

...

That's $50, please.  Would you like to pay for that with your credit card?

WHAT THE FREAK?!

Yeah, it seems that with a certain airline, you have to pay for EVERY PIECE OF LUGGAGE YOU CHECK.  And of course, with such a hefty fee, you'd expect some level of professionalism with regards to your belongings (more on that later).  I was deflated.  $50 for two pieces of luggage.  Emily had been used.

But I paid it.  What else could I do?  They could not be carried on.

The rest of the airport experience went by dismally.  $50?!  I just couldn't get over it.  I'd packed so well for nothing.

During our second flight (yes, we had a layover in Charlotte), and several hours later, I was starting to feel a little better.  Time was indeed healing my wound.  Unfortunately, the middle seat in which I sat was making me nauseous.  I eagerly waited for the flight attendants to come by and offer me my drink.  Ginger ale would hit the spot and calm my squirrely tummy!  The minutes dragged until one of the attendants came out with a basket of drinks.  But wait!  I thought.  You need a cart!  That little basket isn't enough for all of us!

It wasn't indeed.  But it was more than enough for first class. 

I waited.  And waited.  Thinking perhaps they were simply waiting for us to hit the middle of our flight when the pilot came on and said we were only minutes outside of Atlanta and would be beginning our descent. 

Now let me tell you, dear readers, that a nauseous tummy is more than happy to oblige you with a few extra flips and churns when a plane starts descending.  I didn't know if I'd make it.  I needed that ginger ale!

We dove down while my stomach fought to stay somewhere in the clouds, wedging itself in my throat.  I tried to look out the window, knowing I just needed to look at something that wasn't moving around so much, but my husband kept sitting forward then sitting back to catch little cloudy details here and there.  His bobbing head didn't help at all.

Luckily, I didn't actually throw up.  It was close, but I made it.  And as we were taxing (taxiing?  taxying?  sp?!) up to the terminal, I turned to him and said, "From now on, I get the window."  And he agreed.

Come by on Wednesday as I continue the tale with... The Credit Card that Wouldn't Work