Leaving New Orleans
New Orleans, Louisiana, 2004.
Leaving New Orleans always comes as something of a kick in the what-have you’s for the fun-loving visitor. Your arrival, after all, is a reliable pointer of how much of a good time people are intent on having in the city, as invariably there are passengers drinking strong cocktails at baggage reclaim. Leaving just reminds you of the relative banality that awaits when you get back home, where going through customs doesn’t even have a two drink minimum.
Hurricane Lili had pinned me back into my hotel room for two days more than I’d bargained for, and whilst I’m not one to complain about being holed up in luxury accommodation, 48 straight hours of television directed at Bovine America and otherwise sane hotel staff constantly using phrases such as “Please allow yourself to feel vibed” and “How may I enhance your experience?” were beginning to test my endurance. I was under house arrest in the liveliest city in the world. My body was starting to atrophy, and soon enough my skin would be taking on the pallor of one of those coma victims who has to have CDs of their favourite boyband played on a loop in the hope that they’ll snap out of it.
And so it was that on the third day, with severe delay warnings on all flights out of the city, that I nevertheless hightailed it to Louis Armstrong International Airport, just for the change of scenery if nothing else. I was meant to have been in Chicago 48 hours earlier to see friends, and my potential time with them was dwindling. Besides, maybe someone at the airport would let me have sip of their check-in cocktail? Who knew?
What followed wasn’t the longest time anyone has ever been held up at an airport by any stretch, but it damn sure as hiccups felt like it.
2.30pm
Expecting scenes of unadulterated chaos and competitive mudwrestling to
secure a window seat, I arrive three hours before my 5.30pm flight to
Chicago, just to be safe. The queue to check in at American Airlines is
surprisingly non-existent, and in a bout of naïve optimism, I take
this as a good sign. I bounce up to the desk, cheerily announcing my readiness
to check in to the strapping blonde woman sitting there, who without skipping
a beat tells me that due to the appalling weather, the flight is expected
to leave at 7pm. I go outside for a while to focus on my cursing.
2.50pm
I gingerly reapproach the check-in lady and tell her that I might as well
check in anyway. She excitedly tells me that she might be able to get
me on the 4.30pm United flight, which astounds me – you’d
think appalling weather would affect all the airlines, but apparently
some have pilots with a more laissez-faire attitude to taking off safely
than others. Still, it would mean an early-ish departure, so I was willing
to risk it if they were. The check in lady makes a quick phone call, only
for it to transpire that actually United’s pilots are after all
just as lily-livered as the rest, and they also going nowhere fast until
7pm. I check my bags as an offering to the airport gods, and go and find
a quite corner to read and sob in alternate shifts.
3.30pm
I check the info board – American now leaves at 7.45pm
3.50pm
Just as I’ve managed to cultivate a zen-like calm towards the situation,
taking the view that I can do nothing to change my predicament so I may
as well keep my blood pressure down, I’m interrupted by someone
choosing to sit next to me and yelling “HERE WE GO STEELERS!!!”
repeatedly at a decibel level approaching that of the inner workings of
an iron foundry,. At first I thought he might be a simple, honest metalworker,
loudly brandishing his mercantile alliances, but his luminous helmet has
a beer can glued to the top of it, which must either contravene health
and safety laws within his industry, or is, more likely, the headware
choice for the thunderous primate-about-town looking to state some apparent
affection for a local sports team. I smile at him in a way intended to
convey a mental deficiency so strong that even he cannot put things simply
enough for me, and wander off to the safety of the information boards.
4.00pm
Passing a TV, I hear that Lili is blowing town at last, having let her
windy good times roll. Checking the board again, there’s no change
to American Airlines but now the 4.30pm United flight shows up as being
on time. I scramble back to Strapping Blonde at the AA desk.
4.02pm
I ask about the possibility of jumping onto the United flight, an option
offered to me by this very woman not 2 hours ago. Strapping B is confident
that this plane is doing nothing for at least 3 hours, and that the boards
“are wrong”. For some reason, perhaps the way she tells me
without even consulting her screen or phoning anyone or blinking, I’m
sceptical, and suspect she just can’t be bothered to have my bags
switched. I put it to her that it might be worth double checking with
someone further up the food chain, but she maintains her story and her
icy gaze. I retreat reluctantly.
4.15pm
She is lying, she is lying, she is LYING!!! I just know it.
4.30pm
The United Airlines flight to Chicago noses out into the great blue yonder,
apparently unencumbered by Strapping Blonde’s deceit-ridden pessimism.
I go outside to swear at the arrogantly airbound planes.
4.45pm
I call my friend Colleen in Chicago to warn her of my unavoidable tardiness,
and manage to blabber for a whole 45 minutes, only hitting a conversational
bad patch when I tell her the call was mainly to take advantage of her
work’s toll-free number as part of my time-killing tactics.
5.30pm
Back in the departure lounge, I’m sitting around how much room service
I could be enjoying, the fantasy only slightly enhanced by the dubious
odours from the nearby food court. The anticipated flight time on the
board jumps back a whole 15 minutes. Also, the disembodied voice which
had been barking out ever increasing numbers that I’d simply assumed
to be the advancing levels of Hades that we were collectively descending
through, is merely shouting out order numbers from the adjacent hot dog
emporium. My spirits momentarily raised, I head for a consolatory ale.
5.35pm
The “Jazz Alley Cocktail Lounge” is optimistically titled.
On cursory inspection, the only tails being cocked were ones figuratively
daubed in the gaudy colours of baseball teams, housing as it was a raucous
collection of men taking refuge in televised sports and the chance to
smoke indoors. Collective attention flits between the game on TV and the
slim blonde girl sat up front. Judging by the amount of lewd commentary,
her activities, mostly typing e-mail and barking into her cell phone like
some kind of psychotic corporate spaniel are evidently the most erotic
acts imaginable.
6.10pm
I’m trying to keep myself to myself and enjoy the paltry amount
of alcohol that I can afford. When asked the score of the televised sports,
my “Sorry I don’t know” obviously comes across as “Please
explain every technicality of the rules of this sport whilst launching
chewed peanut debris at random parts of my facial area”.
6.30pm
The 7.30pm flight time holds. I go to the gate to dig in.
6.45pm
We’ve been given a “wings up” time of 7pm, which is
great, though there’s the obvious hope that the main fusilage, engines
and attendant flaps and landing gear will enjoy a simultaneous upward
trajectory. We are warned curtly not to leave the gate, and frantic attempts
are made to locate the other passengers, who have left the gate.
7.15pm
The other passengers are cunningly found when they all show up at the
time shown on the board.
7.30pm
Let joy be unconfined. We’re up in the air, and the Bloody Mary’s
are going to be free. If you’re going to be late, you may as well
be drunk, too, after all.