All good things must end

The Hilton Garden Inn, a very large hotel in the midst of a ghetto of very large hotels, about a 15-minute shuttle bus ride from O'Hare Airport, was perfectly nice, and obviously quite adept at dealing with hoards of stranded airline passengers with no luggage (I had a travel toothbrush and toothpaste in my little cosmetic bag, but was very grateful for the complimentary deodorant). Once again, as had been the case for two days at the beginning of my trip, I was without my things.

I had purchased a sandwich at the airport, because I didn't know if there would be a restaurant at the hotel (there was). I heated the toasted sandwich in the microwave in my room, ate it staring at the television, took a hot shower, and went to bed in my underpants, the first time I've done that since I can't remember when.  But I'd spent the whole day in my clothes, would be spending all of the following day in them, so really didn't feel like spending the night in them.

I woke up about two hours latter and, unable to get back to sleep, decided to go downstairs to the Business Center -- i.e., room with computers and printer -- that I'd noticed earlier. There I looked up the bus service that runs a shuttle between Boston's Logan Airport, and the bus/train station in Portland. I printed out my ticket, and the schedule, seeing that I would catch either the 8:35 p.m., or more likely, the 9:35 bus, depending on when, exactly, my plane got in. Note that the trip lasts about 2 1/2 hours, so I would be getting to Portland very late indeed, and would still have to get to the airport, dig myself out of the snow that had accrued in the six days I had been gone, and then drive the hour to my house.

Very luckily, I thought to go back to the Business Center the following morning, after having the buffet breakfast that was o.k. but hardly worth $16, and check on the status of my 4 p.m. flight to Boston. Couldn't believe what I read there. It was not yet 10 a.m., but already the flight was predicted to be four hours late leaving its point of origin (Bozeman, Montana) due to "servicing." What the hell does that mean? What kind of "servicing" results in knowing that the plane is going to be four hours late beginning its trip? Sounds like they needed to bring in a new plane altogether.

The important point here was that if I were leaving Chicago as late as 8 p.m -- four hours later than my flight was supposed to leave -- there was no way I could catch even the last shuttle bus of the evening for Portland. So, heaving a great sigh, I returned to the airport earlier than I had planned, got into yet another endless line, and begged for mercy when I finally reached an agent. The young woman, clicking away at her keyboard, said, "Well, there's an earlier flight, at 1:15, with one seat left..." "I'll take it!" I cried.

And so I did, arriving in Boston just too late to catch the 4:35 shuttle. However, the next bus to pull up, which was the shuttle to Concord, New Hampshire, offered to take me to South Station (train station), as there was another bus leaving for Portland from there at 5:15. I got a real change in my luck, when this bus driver actually managed to overtake the shuttle to Portland at the next terminal, and pulled in front of him to box him in, so I could get off, trundle back and climb on board. I'd made the 4:35 shuttle after all.

I thought my luck had really taken a turn for the better when the woman I sat next to offered to give me a ride to the airport, once we reached Portland. However, this very sweet lady proved to be even more addled than I am. First she wasn't sure where she'd parked -- we wandered up and down lanes of cars, until she spotted hers -- then she thought she had a shovel in her car, but as a matter of fact she didn't, so we were using our booted feet and gloved hands to clear away the snow piled up behind and on top of her car. Then when we finally arrived at the exit gate of the parking lot, she couldn't find her ticket. "I know I had it in my mouth!" she exclaimed. "Then we started clearing off the snow, and I don't know what I did with it..."

It was finally found, we finally exited the lot, and then spent a bit of time getting lost, while she tried to "get her bearings." And I was thinking how if I 'd just walked straight out of the station and into a waiting cab, I would have been at the airport clearing off my own car by now...

We did at last reach the airport where, to my ecstatic relief, my suitcase was waiting for me. (The day before good ol' Farrell Williams had told me: "We can't get you to Portland tomorrow, but we can get your suitcase there.") I spent about 15 minutes shoveling out my car -- at least I had a shovel! -- and then I fled, positively fled, for home.  Which I arrived at 21 hours later than I should have, 32 hours after I arrived at the airport in Colorado Springs.

At last, end of story.