From Tampa to Palm Springs

I’m going hiking.

It’s only the third week since the bike trip ended and already I’m feeling apathetic. Not exactly boredom – as in nothing to do, nowhere to go, mope around the apartment and can’t get through the day without a drink – but more of a general lethargy and a suspicion that there’s something to life besides reformatting computers.

In a little over ten hours, I’ll be in Palm Springs.

I take a cab to the airport. The outrageous price of $25 for such a short trip irritates me – more the principle behind the fixed fare zone, rather than the actual dollar amount – but it’s cheaper than parking. Besides, it means not having to navigate the convoluted tangle of confused access roads myself and that civic planner’s nightmare shows not a hint of improvement.

Nothing about the airport’s changed. Although I wouldn’t necessarily expect to see great differences in 4 months, I’m strangely comforted by the consistency. Things often change far too quickly for my liking. I blink a couple of times or suffer a relatively minor hangover and suddenly the world is a different place. I wouldn’t be surprised to wake up one morning and find the aliens had taken over. That’s pretty much how it felt in 2000 after the ‘chad’ election. The only real surprise was that next day’s Washington Post didn’t have a sneak picture of the new White House resident with gray skin and two huge black slanted eyes.

Anyway, I digress…

There is one change. Starbucks is still serviced by people of foreign origin, but now there are no head scarves and they speak at an audible volume rather than the previous trademark murmur accompanied by a stare or weak smile. Unfortunately, they speak rather too much and the ongoing multi-source chatter of Spanish causes enough confusion to ensure that a good proportion of orders are wrong. How hard is it to pour a coffee and a glass of water? Maybe I added to the linguistic confusion by saying medium instead of dribbling granday. I know it’s an international airport and my own language skills are hardly anything to boast about but, in a busy place where speed is key, wouldn’t it be more sensible to employ people whose first language is the one spoken by the majority of customers?

The PA system frequently announces that Tampa airport is serviced by free wi-fi that may be used for all manner of purposes, but it must require some form of voodoo. This laptop tells me that I am connected, but that I cannot access the internet. To what is the machine connected, if not the internet?

Instructions for the wi-fi can be obtained at the information desk, the PA says. I go there, expecting no usable information and am not surprised. An old man who’s probably servicing the desk as a part time job to eke out his social security, blinks through owlish glasses and tells me that I have to turn the machine on and, ‘Just do it.’ With shaking hands, he holds out a pamphlet that supposedly helps other people, but it doesn’t show much to me. After staring for several minutes at two pages of cartoons as helpful as the outline drawings of fingers on the side of a pack of disposable chopsticks, I abandon the attempt and go in search of the gate.

A stirring in my stomach warns me that checking in online and printing my own boarding pass could lead to disaster. Similar situations have occurred before and now I regret not standing in line like everyone else but nothing goes wrong, my uncut paperwork is accepted and I pass through various levels of security without a hitch.

It occurs to me, as I sit and wait to board, how civilized American airports actually are when compared to say, Heathrow. British airports offer no outlets to plug in your laptop or re-chargeable items and, should you find one and attempt to use it, you will likely be instantly arrested and charged with stealing electricity. Security is an excuse for intimidating, uniformed thugs to relieve travelers of items they have bought only minutes ago in airport shops supposedly put there for the purpose and confusion is so great it can only be intentional. I have previously arrived from European destinations, faithfully followed the exit sign and immediately found myself in the midst of Boots the Chemist, surrounded by bewildered travelers who only want to collect their baggage and leave. By contrast, having to suffer a little Spanish in Starbucks and not get onto the internet at the first try doesn’t seem so hard to bear.

I don’t much like air travel, as is apparent to anyone who has ever sought to involve me in a conversation about it. It’s the only practical way to go long distances, but don’t expect my opinion to change about the rushing, waiting, overcrowding, cost, discomfort, lack of information or plethora of lies, to which every traveler is subjected during the process of moving from one location to another by air.

However…

On this occasion, nothing goes wrong.

The flight arrives, we board, it takes off and an hour later I am in Charlotte. The connecting flight to Phoenix is two hundred yards away, there are no technical issues, I get a maximum leg room bulkhead aisle seat and we arrive only ten minutes late. The final connection is on time, I get a window seat and, in less than half an hour, I am on the tarmac in the blistering 110 degree Palm Springs heat.

The Alamo rent-a-car desk is within sight and there is no one waiting. A friendly and helpful clerk give me a free upgrade, it costs less than $190 for 9 days and my car is exactly where he said it would be. The airport exit is simple, there are no confusing signs and I am driving down the main streets of Palm Springs within minutes.

Motel 6 has reduced their prices for the season, I get exactly the corner room I want on the third floor and go immediately to my favorite bar, where the bartender recognizes me and gives me a free drink with chips and salsa. “Lost weight?” he says and when I catch a glance in the behind the bar and see what losing 30 pounds has done, I am pleased to see a familiar image from the past. A brunette smiles across the island bar and, some time later, relocates to my side of it and we strike up a conversation that takes us onto the dance floor when the band begins their second set. Who knows where this evening could lead?

Hardly a thrilling tale of misadventure but perhaps this might supplant the opinion of those who think I am subject to negative karma.