L U N A T A L K with Eva Moon

Pt. 3: Breathless in Detroit

August 24, 2008 on 6:50 am | In General Musing, In the news, Music, Travel |

I am allergic to Detroit. I’ve never been here before. I have no particular preconceptions about the place. But for some reason, I can’t stop sneezing and snifflng. Which is unfortunate, considering how long it’s going to be before I leave. It’s odd that I should be allergic to Detroit. I was tested for allergies a few years ago and I am so non-allergic I didn’t even react to the histamine control - the one thing everyone is allergic to. Maybe it’s psychological. And no wonder.

The plane staggered in three hours late, so of course everyone missed a connecting flight. My suitcase is already partying in Madison. I expect a breezy “wish you were here” postcard from it any moment now. It will slip in under the door of the Detroit hotel where I am languishing without so much as a toothbrush. The one time in the last dozen years I check a bag and this is the time.

When my kids were little they had a PlaySkool airplane with little peg-assed people. (I recall being seriously torqued that the girl pegs had hard plastic dresses on that made it impossible for them to fit in the cockpit.) By the time we were making our approach into Detroit, my ass felt like it was pegged into something of about that size and comfort. But relief was near. Or so I thought. (Cue ominous music.)

As we were landing, the flight attendant announced that everyone was to go to gate 41 to rebook for another flight. We landed at gate 75. I found out later that the distance is nearly 3/4 of a mile. This is a significant point.

When I got to the head of the refugee line at gate 41, I discovered I had already been rebooked on a 7:09 pm flight to Madison. It was 6:59. The flight was leaving from… gate 71. (Cue Olympics theme music)

I raced the 26.2 miles back to gate 71, hurdling luggage carts and small children. I’m not sure, but I think I passed Usain Bolt. And he didn’t have a flapping purse, laptop, jacket and entirely inappropriate sandals. I staggered and wheezed across the finish line, but no podium for me. The medal winners were on the plane. The door was locked and there was no one even to beg. Next flight? 12:15 pm. The next day.

But hey, a hot shower and couple glasses of merlot later the aches begin to fade. Tomorrow’s a new day. What could possibly go wrong?

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