Terminal Restlessness

I can't imagine that the thought expressed is a terribly original one, but I can hardly help harboring unoriginal feelings. This one is obviously attributable to the manner in which I  recently spent my day- flying. I had sworn that I would not do that under the present set of security procedures employed in domestic airports, but when a wedding located on the opposite coast comes about, there is just no alternative. So it is that I found myself in a Sarasota hotel, contemplating the never-ending joys and indignities of the day.

In my mind, the flight was a hundred years away until it was the next morning. I did half my packing the night before and the remainder in the morning shortly before I left. Fear of having forgotten something was the source of at least as much anxiety as any invasive security measures. Along those lines, I found myself spending nearly twenty dollars on tiny versions of toiletries I already had so that there would be no possibility of losing them to a sticky-fingered security guard. This might be the first flight in years which did not claim a single personal item.

Out of pride I did not seek any ride to the airport, but none really was needed. I live just a few short miles from Bob Hope Airport, and found two buses brought me there with a minimum of difficulty. After having steeled myself most thoroughly in anticipation of passing through the hated gauntlet of security, I must concede that it was a breeze. I credit myself with having flown out of a modest airport during what I have to imagine is a less-than-peak travel period.

A short hop took me to my hometown airport of Sky Harbor in Phoenix. I am genuinely proud of that airport in spite of its flaws. Looming large in its credit: it's no LAX. At Sky Harbor I met my father (who was coming from said airport), greeting him at his gate with a sign bearing his name and a copy of the local paper to supplement his meager reading supply. We chatted and waited for our mutual flight, during which we drank beers and tried to pass the time. He was quite restless, and I was glad for the chance to get some reading done when the talkative old lady from San Francisco was doing her Sudoku and not bending my ear.

At the flight's conclusion, there was quite a tempest at the Tampa airport as we tried to hook up with our rental car and drive to the hotel. It was a tense situation, but finally we had our scratched-up, Minnesota plates-bearing sedan and were on the highway across the bay under the light of the moon. Maybe it was the exhaustion that made it seem so poetic. At long last, with just a gasp of energy left, we made it to what I gather was a four-star hotel which offered standard definition televisions and a pair of swimming pools (each too small to bathe in). It was a nice place anyway, and so we caught our breathes. I expect I shall have many stories from the trip to come, so look forward to that.