Time Trials

Except for the overly loud, vapor-spewing Southwest jets, flying-lesson prop planes doing multiple touch-and-goes, and that obnoxious Osprey that sounds like two helicopters in a weird sexual entanglement, it’s nice being close to Santa Barbara Airport. 

Even though we had a 6:23 am flight, we knew we could be at the airport in less than 10 minutes. And we had arranged for someone to pick up our car. So we jaunted off to short-term parking – or should I call it no-term parking, as there were exactly zero spaces and three of us circling looking for a hint of brake lights. They tell us a parking structure is being planned and an additional terminal so they can have MORE flights. I’m guessing the terminal will come first. 

We headed for long-term parking. “What time is it?” I asked Pat. “5:40,” she said, a smidgen of concern in her voice. That’s when I found out they eliminated the closest entrance to long-term and we had to exit the airport once again to find the new entrance. Now there were a number of us grabbing tickets from the kiosk and searching for anything resembling parking. “Motorcycles only,” said Pat. “Handicap.” “Too small!” I wedged us in.

“We may have to climb out the moon roof, I’ll give you a boost.” But we were able to squeeze out, grab our bags, and head for the airport. “Time?” I asked as we trotted. “Almost six.” Pat said.

We briefly looked at the bag check area. There were several dozen perspiring couples with luggage the size of small SUVs. We ran up the escalator. There was a line at TSA security. “Time?” “Six-twelve,” Pat gasped.

We made it past face recognition, though I’m sure we were somewhat distorted by anxiety. Then we threw our stuff into plastic trays, had our bodies scanned so that the images could someday be uploaded to a humorous Instagram post, and raced around the corner and directly into the plane. “Time?” “Six-twenty,” Pat said, emitting a deep breath she had been holding for an hour.

The small jet backed out as a flight attendant held up a chart showing us the exits in case of emergency. Right. Like we’d get off and do this all
over again.

This was flight one of three in our hopes of getting to Burlington, Vermont, to see some beautiful dying leaves. We were going to be staying in a cabin right on the shore of Lake Champlain “just outside” of Burlington. 

First we had to navigate the Phoenix airport to find our second flight. It’s always fun to go from a small plane to a large plane because they never park them side-by-side. Instead we walked the equivalent of the Pacific Coast Trail past throngs of people going the other way who had gotten off big planes and were now looking for their little plane connection. Airports should not be designed by
aerobics instructors. 

Fast forward hours later on another no-frills flight – where dinner consisted of two little cookies, accompanied by an unhappy baby two rows back – and we arrived in Chi-town, which apparently no one in Chicago ever calls it. Kinda like Cali for California or Spud for Idaho.  “What time is it?” I asked “Three-twenty-three.”

This time we took an Appalachian Trail-sized hike from our large plane to the next little plane. We finally found our gate and collapsed into seats next to a couple. Pat struck up a conversation, telling the folks that we were doing a home exchange with a couple that had a home in Burlington and the lake cabin. They instantly guessed the name of our exchangers. Wow! How small is Vermont?
I wondered. 

Several hours later, we arrived in leaf-peepers paradise. It was totally dark outside. “What time is it?” “Eight pm,” Pat said.

The owners of our exchange graciously picked us up and drove us to the lake house. It took a really long time to get there, the last leg on a single lane dirt road. They showed us around, demonstrated how everything worked, and drove away. We went
to bed.

The next morning we looked out our bedroom window at Canadian geese paddling by on the sunlit lake. “What time is it?” “Who cares?” Pat said. Indeed.