The journey.

Words can’t express how excited I was to travel tonight. I wasn’t happy about leaving Andrew. Or the boys. But I was looking forward to the inner peace I would find in my book on the Metro as I made my to way to Reagan National Airport and then on the Northwest flight to Minneapolis. And on the connecting flight to Omaha.

The Metro at rush hour. Now that’s an experience. The good news was that I got on an empty train. It was the end of the line. It didn’t get stifling crowded for about six stops, and even then, I didn’t notice right away. I was deep in my book. Just as I’d planned. I got off at Gallery Place to transfer from the Green Line to the Yellow Line. Now that was a zoo. But, as it turned out, I didn’t even have to change tracks – the train would be along any second.

So that’s how it happened that I ended up at the airport early. You heard it here first, folks. I wasn’t rushing. I wasn’t sweaty and freaked out. I was relaxed and walked leisurely to the terminal.

With the same relaxed pace, I made my way to the screens to see what gate I needed. Then, I sat with a lovely plate of hummus and pita and a diet Pepsi. Ahhh. This is the solitude I’ve been needing.

Time to go through security. No line. At this point, I realized I was at the wrong terminal. I felt a little dim, but no worries. I had plenty of time. So I strolled to Terminal A. Amazing, no line here either. I was cruising right through. Oops. Yes, my laptop is in the bag. Sure, I’ll take it out. Now, I’m going against traffic. I’m a little embarrassed, but it’ll be fine. Oh no. Now the other guy needs to test my shoes for explosives (that’ll teach me to wear platform sandals at the airport). As if it isn’t icky enough to be barefoot in the airport. Now I have to walk on that floor to the inspection station. At this point I realize that I have totally earned a pedicure.

After I gather all my things and put my dirty feet back into my nice sandals, I mosey on over to gate 4. I brought some “literature” for the trip and suddenly decide that won’t do. So I stop into the newsstand and grab a Michael Connelley book (The Lincoln Lawyer) and another diet Pepsi. (I’m thinking I should buy stock.)

I decided to call my friend in Omaha and tell her I’m well on my way. I start to read the new book and all of a sudden realize that I cleaned my pocketbook. What that meant at this moment is that I have nothing to use as a bookmark. Fortunately for me, people are pigs. There are all the renewal/subscription cards from thousands of magazines from the hoards of people who graced gate 4 before me. I bent to pick one up. The serious businessguy next to me seemed amused that it was for Esquire and the photo was of a young, wild, beautiful young woman who looked like she just had sex. Hey, it was just the first one I grabbed. To go back to the well now would seem, well, a little weird. Picking up trash once is one thing. Switching out that trash for other trash is over the edge.

Time to board. First class. Then everyone. That’s because the plane was so empty. I’d say less than 20 percent full. Imagine my glee when I realized that I had the row to myself. Score! I only had a minute to gloat to myself before I realized that the only, I mean the only, baby on the entire 757 was in the seat behind me. Jabbering. He’d take hold of a word and repeat it over and over and over again. He had a book of trucks. He knew the names of these trucks. Bulldozer. Bulldozer. Bulldozer. Bulldozer. Makes it hard to read a book, I tell you.

But, being adaptable (and recognizing that my day had really been pretty darn good so who am I to complain), I blocked it out. I took out the book, got a blanket and waited for takeoff. But then this little boy…let’s call him Damian…..dropped something. He was displeased. Very displeased. The sound that was emitted from that row was horrifying. It was kind of like a dying moose. Ever heard a dying moose? Michele? Anyway…the parents seemed unfazed. They got the offending item and gave it back to Damian. And then it fell. You know what happened next. I was thinking about how I’d make the 2-1/2 hour flight without hurting him. Then I heard the mom say something about bedtime. That gave me hope. False hope.

It quieted down, though. He’d ramble a bit. It was okay, I concentrated on my book. Great story so far, by the way. But then, it happened.

The mom thought this would be a good time to make sure that Damian could say Grandma and Grandpa. Clearly, that’s who lives in Minneapolis. She’s say the names. He’d give it a try. She would. He would. Then the dad thought he’d help out. When I tell you that between that family of three they said Grandma and Grandpa 3,543 times, you will think I’m exaggerating. Perhaps. But not by much.

When he got it right, he started clapping and shouting with glee. At this point, that didn’t sound much better than the moose. I wanted my peace back.

Alright. Reading is out. I’ll write about this. It’ll make me laugh. After all, it’s really just another story along the path, right? So I get my computer down, start typing. But after the 2nd sentence, the battery gives out.

When we land, the mom (in her Minnesota accent – think Fargo) leans over and says, “He sure is a talkative little boy. I hope we didn’t bother you.”

Of course not.

And the trip continues.

More later!