It’s official. I have landed at Chicago O’Hare as of 30 minutes ago. (For anyone who knows my fear of flying, they should recognize the great accomplishment this is). Oh, and by I, I mean myself, single, solo, alone. ‘Wasn’t there supposed to be someone else on your trip?’, you might ask. Oh, why yes, there was! Unfortunately, they wouldn’t let her get on the plane (I can only imagine the hell that was raised). She missed the cut off time by three minutes. No, not even five minutes, and they wouldn’t check her bags. Three minutes, ridiculous. Oh well. I made the best out of my lonely 19A, no B in sight. She did make it (from what text message information I have gathered) onto the very next, and last, flight of the night out of Washington Dulles, and should be getting here in a little over an hour, according to the arrival monitors, on time, 11:04. In the meantime, I have fashioned a temporary lean-to in baggage claim consisting of the underside of an escalator, two barely-made-the-weight-limit suitcases, a tote bag, and a sweatshirt. Oh, and supposedly, people wear pants in Chicago. Yes, pants. I knew something was wrong when I got off the plane into a crowd of black polyester (actually), myself wearing cutoff denim shorts and a sweatshirt. Apparently this isn’t Malibu.
I’m getting there soon enough, no?
xx N
