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Relax, Put Your Feet Up And Stay A While.

May 8, 2008

Cabo San Lucas was our destination for a three day visit; N just had to go fly-fishing. I was along for the ride. That trip was over a year ago, but last week we were in a place that reminded me of it: the bus station at O’Hare Airport in Chicago.

Whenever I accompany N on one of his “fishing from a boat” (as opposed to “wading near the shore”) trips, I usually spend one day with him and the rest of the time exploring by myself. Being on a river or the ocean is a delight for me, it’s the fly-fishing part (which I’ve written about profusely) that I can do without. The fact that he derives so much pleasure from catching and releasing fish never ceases to amaze me. The fact that it does absolutely nothing for me, never ceases to amaze him. So we’re off to a good start: an almost complete understanding of each other’s expectations. In case that sounds superficial, we do thoroughly enjoy each other’s company and in between my being able to photograph some exquisite scenery, I’m a one person rah, rah team for his “snagging” accomplishments.

We enjoyed our few days in Cabo and set off for the airport for our noon flight home. We had allowed the prerequisite two plus hours for security lines and checking in and arrived at the airport on time only to be told that our plane had just left. “What do you mean it just left?” N and I yelled, er raised our voices ever so slightly in unison; it wasn’t due to leave for a few hours. “Oh, that flight was canceled months ago,” was the reply. Apparently the “shall remain nameless airline” hadn’t bothered to inform us. N had printed our itinerary from their official site the day before we left home, and the flight listed was the same one we had just arrived at the airport hoping to board.

Polite words went back and forth ad nauseam until we secured two seats on the only flight that could get us home within the next 24 hours, but it wasn’t due to leave until early evening. It was a flight through Dallas where we would have to change planes. That meant we would arrive at O’Hare in the middle of Sunday night/morning, too late to catch a bus to our town, making it iffy that N would be on time to see his patients first thing Monday morning. So we waited semi patiently for the five or six hours before our flight left, trying to remind ourselves of the fun we’d just had in beautiful surroundings.

Our flight back to Chicago was quite enjoyable and after collecting our luggage at 1:30am, we “accosted” the only limo driver still awake to see if he was available; to no avail. No taxis either. I mentioned to N that the Hilton Hotel was just across the street and we should try to get a room. He thought there wouldn’t be rooms available for only part of a night and suggested we just hang out in the bus station. Huh?

We settled down for an uncomfortable night (what was left of it), mostly spent preventing our butts from sliding around on the brick hard slippery seats; even with our feet perched on a suitcase, it was going to be an interesting five hours until the first bus of the day showed up.

We snacked on whatever we could extricate from the vending machine, with Diet Sprite to wash it down and looking around discovered we were not alone; there were at least three other groups camping out that night; one man lay on a heat vent snoring; other folk chatted. There’s a lot of activity at 3am. Shifts happened. All night long. Floors were swept and swabbed. Buckets clunked. Trash cans emptied and re-lined. People meandered noisily through the building and in and out the building, letting in the frigid night air. So much was going on; it was almost better than TV. But next time, I’m going to insist on trying the hotel.

Copyright © 2008

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