You Can't Wait Here

I picked Princess up at the airport last night.

Her plane was an hour late . . . and I did not check the internet before I left to find out that information (at this point my father is rolling his eyes, thinking about where he could have gone wrong). When I went to pick up the prodigal son J. I pull up to the terminal and was told, very politely but firmly, that I could not stop my car "until my party was waiting curbside". This meant much circling, because J. being a Crabbypants, didn't check any luggage. So he was going to be momentarily curbside.

Princess is not in any way a Crabbypants. So I knew there would be checked luggage. Huge pieces of checked luggage. Plus she went to California for more than a week. If I was not a Crabbypants that would require many, many shoes. So even larger huge luggage. (turns out she was three pounds over the weight limit) So I didn't leave in a hurry. I pulled up to the terminal at 1:04, a full 17 minutes after her plane was supposed to land. The plan was for me to sit in the "cell phone area". But the "cell phone area" is complicated from my direction . . . you have to drive through the airport, go out on Eureka, find a place to turn around, go back toward the airport. I didn't know it existed until Mr. Crabbypants mentioned it. And I had some time with the circling for J.. But if you are east of the airport, you would not know about the mysterious "cell phone" waiting area.

But as I pulled up to the terminal, planning to be a good girl and going to wait in the "cell phone area" with my doors locked (it's not well lit . . . and basically is the side of a freeway ramp), I found that in the wee hours of the morning there is no plan for homeland security. Whereas, I could not stand with my car running for five minutes at 2 in the afternoon, I could park my car and walk away at 2 in the morning. And no one cared. I didn't do that, of course, due to my ingrained airport etiquette, handed down genetically. But I could have. The mini-van parked askew behind me had a college student and two small identically dressed children. She walked around everywhere . . . including . . . gasp . . . entering the airport itself. The weird green van in front of me, that had a clown car like quality of having an unlimited number of people enter and exit the vehicle sat for the same amount of time that I did. And was there when I left. As a rule follower, it was driving me crazy.

Not only was I irked by the hypocrisy of not letting me wait five minutes in the afternoon but being able to sit for an hour late at night. I also was alarmed by what I saw, things that I don't think should happen at an airport anymore. A man wandering around without shoes for a full hour. Parked cars with no one in them. The Nicaraguan clown van in parked in front of me. Totally unattended six year olds running about. People entering baggage claim from the outside world. (I'm sure they were just walking in a stealing luggage. No one checks. And they always tell you the wrong belt and then make you walk to another belt.) And while there were at least ten sheriff patrol cars in the afternoon, I saw one in my hour last night. One. For five minutes. They pulled over someone in the third lane. Forced them to the curb. I think because they were waiting in the third lane. So forced them to the same place they told me I couldn't wait in the afternoon.

So I don't like the airport in the wee hours in the morning. Makes me feel jumpy. Perhaps because I have a devious mind.

Princess's luggage was not stolen by the random guy with no shoes, perhaps because it was so heavy. She brought me a lovely gift. She did not know about the line of "Emily, the Strange" products and seemed to think that they fit me perfectly. So I now have a lovely key chain proclaiming me as strange . . . and that I rock. Which fits, really. I'm glad she is home.