RV Dreams, Airport Nightmares: Our Maiden Voyage Begins

The plan was simple: a one-way ticket to Orange County, a brief negotiation, and my life on the open road would begin. Well, as my dad, a big fan of military history, used to tell me, “No plan of operations extends with any certainty beyond the first encounter with the main enemy forces.” That quote from over 150 years ago applies to this day in spades.

I woke up to Alexa’s selection of Norman Greenbaum’s “Spirit in the Sky.” Showered, got dressed, and began loading the luggage into the car.  Meanwhile, my wife was still debating over which items to try to wedge into the already overstuffed carry-on. In an attempt to be helpful, I suggested she leave the hair dryer. We’ll get one when we stock up the motorhome. That was the first of many things that I was wrong about on this day.

The trip to the airport was uneventful. Traffic in our small city is moderate at best and nonexistent at 4:00 a.m. We parked in the long-term lot, unloaded the bags, and dashed through the light rain toward the terminal. Once inside, we got out our IDs and electronic boarding passes and strolled to the security checkpoint.  

I hadn’t travelled by plane since before the pandemic. I was pleasantly surprised when I didn’t have to remove my electronics from my bag, which would have been quite a chore, as I had two laptops and a CPAP machine, or take off my shoes. To the untrained eye, things were proceeding briskly with only the full body scan left. So I stepped up, placed my feet, and raised my arms. The machine whirred, and then I stepped out. 

“The machine is alerting on your groin area,” the security guard announced with a stern glance. Apparently, the full-body deodorant I used registered as glycerin. So, without even an invitation to dinner, the security pat-down/ feel-up began. Then a stint in the seat of shame while he rubbed down my sandals. Seconds later, the machine beeped the all clear, and  I could resume my journey to the gate.

The hop to Chicago only took 35 minutes. Not nearly long enough to shake the Silkwood shower vibe. For once, the jaunt through O’Hare was short and sweet. We got to the gate with enough time to grab McDonald’s for breakfast. With a full stomach and a smile on my face, we got into the boarding line. Surely things were looking up. (Spoiler Alert: they weren’t).

I snaked my way past first and business class until I finally reached what I call cattle class. Taking my seats, I settled in for 3 and a half hours of cramped sweatiness surrounded by wailing children and adults questioning their life choices.

After a loud but uneventful flight, the plane touched down at John Wayne Airport. The weather was sunny and inviting, giving the uninitiated the impression that the tide was turning. They were right, but it was more like the lull before the tsunami hits.

The sun was shining. The air was warm. And I was about to find out just how badly a dream can detour in one afternoon.

In Part Two, the storm hits, the dream wobbles, and a strong drink is born. Trust me—you’ll want the recipe.