Wednesday, August 10, 2005

Shortest. Vacation. Ever.

Okay... Let me tell you about my 24-hour vacation... I fine-tuned my packing for my long-awaited trip to Scotland. This was right on the heels of a three consecutive trips to and from AMS...Nine days of travel...So I decided to keep the momentum going and just head on on the next far, so stupid... I got to Logan and other than a small brush with TSA(God, how I HATE them...)things went pretty well. (Rather than giving them excessive attitude, I give them absolute perfunctional attention...and when they start pulling their pathetic little power-trip on me...I just ignore them completely and go on my merry way. They are non-entities at that point...) So...I got the jumpseat for the flight to AMS. My co-workers were nice enough to give me a seat in executive class...One of them helped me to fine-tune my digital camera, they loaded me up with some booze so I could offer them as gifts to my friends in the Bonnie Land... So far, so good... Now, it's important to mention here that since I had ALL of my luggage with me, I didn't have to enter the country to reclaim it at the baggage carousel. So I'm in at Schiphol with HOURS to kill. So I pick my out a spot and get myself a nice, LONG nap on some lounge chairs... Eventually, the time comes for me to report to the departure gate for EasyJet Flight Whatever to Edinburgh. The security line gets bigger and I was patiently waiting to get the boarding-agent's attention. Now since you don't need a ticket on EasyJet...just knowledge of your record-locator number, I thought I was in the clear. I thought I just had to have a boarding ticket printed so I could get through their security screening...My tension-level was rising a bit as the boarding process accelerated. Okay. I got to ask finally. I was informed that EasyJet was not a transfer airline. I would have to go down to the check-in desk at ground-level to get the ticket. Too late to do THAT. So...I nodded and agreed. They'd been polite about it, after all... Then I turned right back around and headed to the gate where my employer airline was heading back to Boston. I wasn't exasperated. I was just tired of the travel-bullshit. The ticketing, the procedures, the red-tape. I was over it. I was going home. I didn't care about the non-refundable fare. I didn't care about trying to get on another flight. I was RELIEVED that I didn't have to go through the bullshit of getting a bus or train from Edinburgh Airport to Aberdeen. I was worried a bit about getting the jumpseat pass to get home. Christ knows which forms you need. It really depends WHERE you are, WHO you're dealing with, and how nice you are while doing it...I just got tired of the game. I was going home. I got on board, I sat in 18F until my colleagues paged me to move to the I was given another Executive seat...which I was very grateful for. So I sat there, being morose for awhile...Emotionally numb, even. And then I started chatting with my co-workers, chatting with the talkative German gentleman who seemed to thrive on The Craich(The Celtic art of conversation) and my mood began to improve. Hell, I even helped my co-workers to clean up their galley a bit. In twenty-four hours, I had gone over and come back. A stupid way to spend the day but it could have been worse... I was glad to be home. My roommate was shocked to see me and he seemed astonished that I didn't push ahead to reach my destination. I told him...I just didn't CARE anymore. I just wanted to get HOME and away from the airline bullshit. Which just might happen PERMANENTLY if my union receives the vote to strike with the mechanics union on the 21st of August. So on this time off, I plan to paint some of the walls of my planned study, put away the laundry, visit the little guy Josiah, spend time with my significant other, and perhaps clock some time in with my ambassador friend...and to see if he has any colleauges that might pay for some quality grunt-clerical work... Some extended time off at home. An ideal vacation as far as I'M concerned... Safe travels... G.


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