A Luckless Longshot: How I Got to Vegas

"You got to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em.  Know when to walk away and know when to run." - Kenny Rogers, The Gambler

When I arrived at Dallas-Love Field just before 9 a.m. without having had a sip of morning coffee, my friend Halle assured me it would be fine - that a Starbucks awaited inside the terminal.  It was the first gamble I took that day - hedging my bets that everything would work out just fine.  Instead of a Starbucks, I found a 1960s-style lunch counter with a white plastic board above it with little press-on red plastic letters where I took my chances a cup of coffee that might've been brewed in preparation for President Kennedy's arrival.

And while I slugged coffee and tried to get internet set up, I took stock of my fellow passengers - two teenagers whose true love was evident in their matching Hollister hoodies and attempts to intertwine themselves on the ill-padded terminal chairs; a man I was quite sure was Wilford Brimley; and my kryptonite - a gaggle of small children playing tag.  By the 20th time they sailed dangerously close to me, I could feel myself getting ready to Hulk out on them, tweeting "Children in Terminal 31, please be advised that I do not like children. Consider yourself warned to steer clear of me. #itrip #eviloldlady." Instead, I stood to go to the restroom.  Perhaps my nerves were frayed from strong coffee and inconsiderate little people, but I found myself standing inside the men's room.  Oops.

Soon I received a text from my mother.  Wait, wait, wait.  A text.  From my mother?  This is a game-changer.  It was to inquire about the weather.  In Dallas, it was sunny and cool, but the airline, in its infinite wisdom, had chosen to route my significantly westbound flight to the east via Memphis.  Where a giant storm system was gathering.  Which would explain why our Memphis-originating flight landed at the airport right about the time that we were supposed to be departing.  And why we promptly loaded the plane, buckled in and prepared...to sit on the tarmac for an hour while the Memphis airport shut down to let the weather system pass.  As luck would have it, the rambunctious children were just across the aisle from me chowing down on foul-smelling Sour Cream and Onion Pringles.  I considered using the air sickness bag.

I was still (stupidly) optimistic at this point, imagining that the closed airport in Memphis meant that my connecting flight was also safely trapped on the tarmac awaiting me, my laptop and camera, and correctly routed checked bag.  But the odds were against me, and as we taxied to a stop at the terminal in Memphis, I checked the flight status of my connection to see that it was also taxiing on the runway...and off into the great blue sky without me.

Inside the ticket agents hustled us to these fancy machines that scanned our ticket barcode and spit out our fortune: "You will be making an unforeseen travel detour in Salt Lake City."  Because even though the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, going east and north to get west and south is the logical way to go.

And so I found myself having the second meal of the day in an airport.  This time a barbecue sandwich from Jim Neely's Interstate Barbecue which, though delicious, was a gigantic mess that I attempted to inhale while talking to my sister who kindly entertained me through dinner and wished me luck for the last (insert extremely sarcastic inflection on "last") leg of my travel.  That's what I told Mom when I called her to tell her we were boarding the plane on time and that this little eensy weensy snafu in my travel seemed to be over (insert eye roll indicating I realize how Pollyanna I am).

We did board the plane on time.  And once boarded, I sent the following tweet: "Sweet Lord, there is a small child in front of me on a 2.5 hour flight. #serenityprayer #arewethereyet."  Little did I know that by the time boarding ended, there would also be a small child behind me.  I took Dramamine.  Which may explain why I remained calm when the captain announced that the weather front driving the storms into Alabama and Georgia was causing high-speed winds that meant every plane had to take off from one runway.  (Insert 45 minute delay.) 

When I woke up somewhere over the Colorado Rockies, I checked the time and watched the minute hand creep toward my 9:40 p.m. departure time.  But the flight attendant with her almost hypnotically calm voice kept telling us that Salt Lake was aware of our connecting flights and would make adjustments accordingly.

What you find out when you arrive is that "adjustments" means sending the plane without you.  For the second time, I found myself grounded when I should've been skyward.  At 10 p.m. MDT, they were shutting that place down.  No more flights to Vegas or anywhere else. 

That's how I found myself at the ticket counter with William and Al, two gentlemen from Jackson, Mississippi who were also on my plane and also Vegas-bound.  William ostensibly had a speaking engagement the following morning - at a hooker convention, no less - that he simply could not miss.  He and Al were trying to make sense of the arrangements we were being offered: a stay in Salt Lake City and standby on the first flight of the day at 8:30.  Confirmation on a flight at 1:50.  And, oh, by the way, 18 passengers were on standby for 7 available seats.

I reached my limit.  Suddenly, I was Bear Grylls, Ash versus Vegas, and by God, I was going to make it to my destination.  While the terminal computers choked through flight schedules trying to find us better arrangements, I had out my iPhone charting the distance between Salt Lake and Vegas.  I figured with a rental car and a bag of beef jerky I could make it.  Six-and-a-half hours through unknown territory, but Bear would never shy away from such a challenge.  Even without the beef jerky, I probably could've made a passable meal from lint and stale french fries hidden under the rental car seats.  The chips were down, the stakes were high, and I was ready to place my bet.

I contemplated this new plan aloud to William and Al.  And to my mother, who I think I gave a near heart attack with my survivalist plan.  William asked the ticket agent about the road leading to Vegas, and she looked a bit concerned over my plan, but I wasn't.  I can handle a 10-to-4 drive through the mountains.  I will not be deterred by the "deer being down."  I'm going to VEGAS BABY.

William and Al, seeing my wild-eyed determination, sighed and shifted and then announced that if I were going through with it, they would go with me.  The woman at the counter said, "Are the three of you traveling together?"  And William replied, "Me and Al are.  Me and Ashley have been dating about 20 minutes."

But just as I gathered my bags and prepared to make a beeline for the Enterprise counter, William managed to finagle the number for Southwest.  And some woman, some angel of mercy, told him there was a 6:20 a.m. flight with 30 seats.  A part of me was relieved.  A part of me was disappointed - I was pretty jacked up for this insane roadtrip with my new friends William and Al and whatever supplies we could get at the closest 7-11.  My mother was 178 percent relieved.

I booked my ticket via phone while we waited for the shuttle bus to retrieve us from the airport, and William asked me questions to verify our compatibility - did I smoke?  Did I have a tattoo?  Seemingly, negative responses to these two questions sealed our relationship.  I was grateful for it, too, because there was one guy in the terminal who winked at me repeatedly until I gestured to William and Al in the baggage claim office and said, "I'm with them."

At the hotel, I tried not to look to critically at my lodgings as I arranged my bags and clothes for the next morning in the path of least resistance.  And then I laid down for a blessed 3 and a half hours.

When the phone rang in the Baymont Shores Inn at 4 a.m., I woke with a start, sat up in bed and wondered aloud in an alarmed voice, "Where am I?"  But there was no time to contemplate location.  I had 59 minutes before the shuttle would be pulling away from the hotel, and I had already reached my quota on missed connections.

The desk clerk called me at 4:57 as I was zipping my bag to tell me that the shuttle was leaving.  But I wobbled down the hallway like an overloaded pack mule and thrust my baggage into the hands of the shuttle driver who tried to convince me to wait 15 minutes for the next shuttle while I furiously shook my head no and squeezed into the van.  In the darkness, I heard William say, "I told him, 'We can't leave without Ashley.' I was going to kick his butt."  It pays to have friends, it seems, who understand in less than 24 hours that you're always late.

By the time I walked out to board my 6:20 flight, the sun was shining and a light breeze was blowing.  We took off and landed in what seemed the blink of an eye.  I slept as soon as I was safely strapped into an aircraft assured to get me to Las Vegas.

I landed at 6:35 a.m. PDT and found myself a taxi that I swear was driven by Shug Knight.  He drove me to the Luxor, a giant shiny black pyramid guarded by a replica of the sphinx on its front lawn.  I passed from the cool, bright early morning through the doors flanked by Anubis into cavernous darkness.  I blinked twice and looked up to see a bleary-eyed man drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette mid-lobby.  Welcome, I thought, to Vegas. 

And so I checked in and was told...to head to the 13th floor.  That sealed it.  Absolutely no gambling for me.  You gotta know when to walk away...and when to run.

Smashville

Early on in life, it was clear that I would not be known for grace.  By age 11, my sister nicknamed me "Smash" for the collection of bumps, bruises and scrapes that constantly marred my arms, shins and knees.  These injuries were of the sort one expects from a growing adolescent.  Problem is, I never outgrew them.

Something about traveling seems to inspire my gracelessness, and my latest business trip was no exception.  You may recall my 14-hour cross-country adventure or the time Captain Fail Pants went to Washington.  I kept the klutz alive with my recent jaunt to Nashville.

• The reserved rental car, advertised as a Chevy Impala, was a minivan, resulting in a confusing conversation about getting a car from another rental place in town and a cross-town drive to pick up said car.  So much for leaving on time.
• At 3:45, I tweeted, "Nashville-bound and stuck in maaajor traffic accident on 285 listening to Wheatus 'Teenage Dirtbag' and wishing I'd stopped for Combos."
• At 4:30: "Officially lost an hour on 285 and #sittingstill #swearingtomyself
• And at 5:15, when the standstill from the overturned tractor trailer blocking four lanes of traffic had stolen an hour and a half of my life: "This is the part where I start to lose it completely. Almost 2 hours lost. #iwillnotcry"
• I didn't cry.  I did eat two McDonald's cheeseburgers and an order of large fries, which fortified me until I arrived in Nashville, seven hours after departing from home.  
• The next morning, I discovered instead of shampoo, I had two shower gels, and so, I washed my hair with shower gel.
• The first pair of pantyhose I put on ran from top to toe.  But my awesome mother advised me to pack a second pair, just in case.  Mother knows best.  And knows that her daughter is a complete disaster most of the time.
• At the tradeshow set up, the literature stand was broken and the tradeshow floor was sweltering and I tried unsuccessfully for 10 minutes to get the TV working only to realize it wasn't plugged in.
• I finished the setup, stood back to admire my handiwork, sweating, and realized…that the materials that were urgently FedExed to my hotel so that I would have them for the tradeshow were, in fact, still at the hotel.
• At this point, a complete, swirling monsoon descended on Nashville.
• I forged across the street to the parking deck, holding my umbrella like a battle shield against the wind.
• In my hurry to get out of the rain, I tripped on the lip of the sidewalk and fell crushing my umbrella.  Literally broke it.  Bent the handle into a frown - which technically could've been a smile if turned the other way, but let's face it: that was a frown.
• Dude standing there says, "Are you okay?" and in total embarassment I popped to my feet and assured him I was fine.  Then I limped away, toting the ruined umbrella and cursing.
• Second pair of pantyhose? #totalled
• Both knees #totalled
• I pulled out of the parking space and came down the ramp...which was blocked by a paving machine.  I waited impatiently until one of the workers directed me around the mammoth piece of equipment.
• Turned the wrong way out of the parking deck and had to circle the block on one-way streets.
•  Drove back to my hotel, pulled into the turnabout, waved away the over-eager valet and ran inside, red-faced and sweating and asked for the package.  They asked for ID. I showed them my tradeshow badge like it was press credentials.
•  Back at the parking deck, I left the crumpled umbrella in the passenger seat and focused on getting across the street in one piece.
•  Inside, I stopped in the ladies' room, ditched my busted up hosiery, wiped the blood from my knees and took stock of my reflection - I looked like Gilda Radner working the Weekend Update desk.
•  Later that night, I tried to escape my luck with a nice dinner with my clients.  Instead, I got confused coming back from the restroom, and they caught me talking to myself - announcing that I'd taken a wrong turn - right beside our table.
•  And though the second morning went smoothly, by the end of the day, my high-heeled shoes had nearly crippled me.  Though I had planned to go back to the convention center to change clothes for the drive home, I couldn't bear the thought of another step.  Which is how I learned that desperation is changing clothes in a rental car on the fifth floor of the parking deck.
• Only later, closing in on midnight, exhausted from head to toe and fighting to stay awake, did I realize that desperation is really being willing to listen to "Candyshop" by 50 Cent on high volume.

And so, I arrived home, once again riddled with bruises and scrapes, with a dilapidated umbrella in the front seat and a new appreciation for gangsta rap.  And a host of reminders that Smash lives.

how to get to san diego (the hard way)

2 p.m. EST, Midtown Atlanta
Meet your co-worker in the office building turnabout rolling your oversized suitcase, shouldering your laptop bag and strapped with your insane camera bag looking fresh and eager with your matching vintage necklace-and-earring set and your cute t-strap flats.  Load everything in the car and head for the airport.

2:05 p.m. EST, Midtown Atlanta
Traffic.  Ugh

2:45 p.m. EST, Camp Creek Parkway
Climb aboard the Park-and-Fly shuttle with oversized suitcase, laptop bag and insane camera bag.  Note that the air temperature is less than desirable considering the 90-plus-degree weather.  Begin to sweat.

3:05 p.m. EST, Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport
Approach the Frontier Airlines counter and take place in the surprisingly long and slow-moving line.  Keep inching forward and shifting giant bag, camera bag and laptop bag.

3:20 p.m. EST, Frontier Airlines Counter
Get checked in by a curmudgeonly ticket agent who asks you if there's a phone number attached to your oversized suitcase.  Do what now?  Proceed to rattle off your cell phone number.  Receive irritated look from the ticket agent.  Oh, do you mean is my phone number on my bag?  Yes.  Why didn't you ask that question in the first place?

3:25 p.m. EST, Security Line
Feel SO relieved to have lightened your load and only be shouldering the laptop bag and strapped with the insane camera bag.  Clearly, it's going to get easier from here.  Remember you have to remove shoes.  Oh, t-strap flats, don't make me unbuckle you.

3:35 p.m. EST, Underground Train
Move to the back of the car and find a place to stand.  Let the laptop bag rest on the ground.  It is, after all, getting a weeee bit heavy...

3:45 p.m. EST, Concourse D
Walk all...the...way to the end of the terminal to the assigned gate where there appears to be approximately 4,000 people waiting to board the plan.  Dash to newstand to buy guilty-pleasure fashion magazines and a water as an afterthought.

3:50 p.m. EST, Concourse D
Boarding begins with premier customers.  And families with young children.  And the elderly.  And possibly trained chimps.

4:00 p.m. EST, Concourse D
Have they called any other rows?  Nervously check watch and wonder about the 4:09 departure time.

4:10 p.m. EST, Jetway access to the plane
Listen to a Frontier representative repeatedly yell along the line of passengers that the overhead bins are full and as many people as possible need to check the bags they didn't check to avoid the $25 baggage fee.  Consider yelling back, at equal volume, that the plane is late.

4:15 p.m. EST, On plane, in seat
Assume that now that you're buckled in, the show will get on the road

4:55 p.m. EST, On plane, in seat, fuming
The cabin door finally closes after the most disorganized boarding procedure in the history of aviation.  Begin to wonder if you have stumbled into some sort of sociological experiment trying to determine how long the passengers will wait to overthrow the crew.

5:30 p.m., MST, On plane, in seat, considering barfing
Due to some unspecified weather condition, the Denver airport is closed.  And even though this moment marks the appointed time of arrival, aimlessly circle the Denver airport instead through teeth-rattling turbulence.  Almost lose it when the guy next to you says he's going to be sick.  (Doesn't he know you never say it out loud???)

6:15 p.m., MST, On ground (thank you, Lord), at arrival gate
Shoulder insane camera bag.  Pull laptop bag out of overhead bin (did it get heavier?).  Run to gate agent.  Connecting flight?  Gone.

6:30 p.m. MST, Frontier Airlines customer service desk
Stand in line behind the other stranded passengers on the flight.  Wonder if those are blisters forming on the top of your feet.  Politely explain your dilemma to the service agent, swallowing the desire to yell or cry.  Or maybe barf (just a little).  Receive transfer ticket to the 9:10 p.m. MST departure.

7:00 p.m., MST, Chef Jimmy's Bistro, Denver Airport
Call friend in San Diego about change of plans.  Discuss that the John Wayne/Santa Ana/Orange County Airport is further from San Diego than she thought.  Consider moving one Hilton night to the Irvine Hilton and journeying south the next morning.  Call Hilton San Diego.  Be told to call the Hilton Irvine.  Call the Hilton Irvine.  Be told that because you are a deal-seeker and pre-paid for the room to get a discount, that adjustments to the reservation can only be made by corporate.  Call corporate.  While on hold, realize that they close at 6 p.m., CST time.

7:15 p.m., MST, Chef Jimmy's Bistro, accompanied by pizza and pasta
Decide in a radical move to rent a car in Orange County and drive to San Diego upon arrival.

8:30 p.m., MST, Frontier Airlines Terminal
Sit in a giant square arena with other angry passengers while the gate agents insist on using the loudspeaker at the same time so that all flight cancellations and gate changes sound like they're being issued by Charlie Brown's teacher.  Laugh or cry?  Eat a cookie.  Realize those are definitely blisters.  And that your laptop may contain lead.

9:00 p.m., MST, Frontier Airlines Terminal
Hear the announcement that the flight has been moved from gate 26 to 30.  Join the lemmings migrating in that direction.  Wince at the blisters on your feet.  Hate your laptop.  And your camera.  And your life.

9:15 p.m. MST, Flurry of activity
Board the plane in desperate hurry.  Orange County has a curfew and planes that take off after a specified time are rerouted to LAX and bused to Orange County.  Wonder if you will collapse in an apoplectic fit if this happens.

11:00 p.m., PST, Over southern California
Be woken from restless sleep by the flight attendant announcing that the plane is approaching Orange County.  Realize disaster is averted.  Then laugh inside at the thought that this small victory could in any way signify averting disaster.  Feel grossed out by the passenger next to you putting on full makeup at this time of night.  Take off the earrings that are pinching your ears.

11:15 p.m., PST, Alamo Car Rental Kiosk
Sign away your life in order to rent an economy sized car.  No seriously.  Tell them whatever they want to know if they'll give you a car.  Do it.

11:25 p.m., PST, Baggage Carousel #2
Be approached by super chatty Orange County dude.  Consider punching him.  Inwardly mock him instead.  Collect your oversized baggage, crippling laptop and why-did-I-bring-this-camera-bag.

11:35 p.m., PST, John Wayne/Santa Ana/Orange County/Airport of Many Names
Pull out of the parking deck in a shiny yellow VW bug that has difficulty holding everything.  Coworker turns on the radio and "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" is on.  Sing loudly.  And badly.  Miss the exit ramp for the 405.  Wonder why California hates u-turns so much.

12:15 a.m., PST Somewhere on the 5 south
It's dark.  See the sign for San Diego County.  Applaud.  Attempt to mentally do the math to figure out how many more exits there are between you and sleep.  Fail.

12:35 a.m., PST, Hilton Hotel Gaslight District
Pull up to the curb and give the valet an absurd amount of money to park the car overnight.  When he asks if you need help with your bags, brush him aside.  You've got it.  You've got it as you tug your oversized bag out of the tiny trunk and stumble backward and ouch those blisters hurt and where's your wallet in the insane camera bag and how heavy is this laptop?  Stagger into the hotel and give your name for the reservation.  Discover you're at the wrong Hilton.

12:40 a.m., PST, Curb
Angrily stuff all your crap back into the tiny VW bug and your poor coworker can't buckle her seatbelt because of how you pushed your luggage into the backseat and you promise to drive very carefully for the three blocks to the other Hilton.  And why are there so many Hilton in San Diego?  Wonder is that you that smells so ratty?  Consider that your mascara may be on your chin.

12:45 a.m., PST, Hilton San Diego BAYFRONT
Meet CAMERON who is resplendent in his light blue Hilton jacket and stylish designer glasses and carefully trimmed hair and oh my does he have manicured nails?  Briefly consider what you might look like.  No, bad idea.  Spell your name.  Sag against the counter when he finds it in the computer.  Try to patiently endure the offers of upgrades and sidegrades and as politely as possible, hitching your maddening camera bag up on  your back and your laptop bag straps out of the skin on your shoulder and shift the oversized suitcase so you can reach the counter and don't even think about your feet, reach for the keys that will open a room where there will be a bed.

1:00 a.m., PST, Hilton San Diego Bayfront, Room 2210
Laugh maniacally when you see the bed.  Think about the path of least resistance to bed.  Could you forgo washing your face?  Yes.  But not your teeth.  Forage for toothbrush and toothpaste.  Open the bathroom door.  And...oh, sweet fancy Moses.

1:05 a.m., PST, The Smell of Death
Meet your match - the unseen swamp gas rising from some unknown source deep in the bowels of the earth and breathing its pungent, deathly breath right in your face with an intensity that makes your eyes water.  Back away from The Smell of Death and ask co-worker for confirmation.  She confirms and calls the desk about the fouls stench that can only be described as some unholy combination of rotting cabbage, raw sewage and the funk of 40,000 years.  Run for your life.

1:10 a.m., PST, Hallway on the 22nd floor of the Hilton San Diego BAYFRONT
Stand like two bereft hobos in the lamplit corridors with your yes-you-still-are-stuck-with-this-infernal-camera-bag hung askew off one shoulder leaning against the handle of your oversized suitcase that could roll out from under you at any moment with the strap of the laptop bag tangled around your arm, the bag itself precariously perched atop the suitcase.  At least you got to change shoes.  Gaze sadly at the raw red blisters on top of your feet.

1:20 a.m., PST, 24th floor of...Lord, help me, where am I?
In the bathroom, consider that you look like a meth addict.  Washface.  Brushteeth.

1:30 a.m., PST, 2:30 a.m., MST, 4:30 a.m. EST; Personal standard time, DOA.
Collapse into bed.  Before letting weary exhaustion take over and relax your throbbing feet, crippled shoulder and aching back, set the alarm for 8 a.m. because after 14 hours, two cars, one train, two planes and your own tortured soles, with God as your witness, you are going to see San Diego in the morning.