The Most Amazingly Terrible and Terribly Amazing Travel Day

I don't know how much you dear readers will enjoy this one, but I know I will relish writing it. Writing is one of my greatest comebacks for turmoil. It's therapeutic to unravel things out in words sometimes. Consider yourselves warned. I apologise not. We all have bodies and bad days. 

I finish writing this piece in the quiet comfort of my own apartment. Who knew one's own apartment could feel so rare and wonderful? 

Wednesday was a travel day and whenever I set an alarm for a terrible hour like 3:50am I wonder if I will wake up for it, and how it will feel. But I woke plenty early at 3am instead, feeling like a gurgling water bed had replaced my abdomen. Oh no. Of ALL days for this to occur. How about a day with four airports, immigration, customs, and all the while having in my care an enormous box and bag? 

After everything I had ever eaten, ever, had been relocated into the hotel bathroom, I rallied and carried my bicycle box, and then my hulking Pooh (poo, heh) Bear Bag out to the street. I sat on the sidewalk in the only time of day and night this city is quiet, that eerie hour between the night owls and the early birds, and wifi-ed for an Uber. 

My Uber then pulled up in a mini-muffin Mazda. How was this box going to fit? Thankfully I'd woken early enough to leave luxurious time for all the pushing and 3-D Tetris that Mr. Uber and I did together. Still, the back wouldn't shut, even with that box pushed all the way forward. I didn't have the Spanish word for "rope" or "bungi" but he knew what I was gesticulating about and shook his head no. We certainly weren't going to go anywhere with the back yawning entirely open. Then! I realized I was holding a strap myself, my handlebar bag. I unclipped it's strap, and we fastened it effectively and I folded myself next to the box, and off we set. What a good natured trooper this Mr. Uber was, and it was all I could do to get him to take my little tip of $2 in gratitude. 

After paying the exorbinant oversize bag fee (but it is SO worth it) and getting my tickets, I was so unbelievably hungry (at 4:30am, who does that?) I had to camp out for a while and consume a corn muffin before I could bare to face what was probably going to be, in my sorry state, a grueling trek through security. It's amazing how one's gut will dictate energy and make even the simplistic of tasks seemingly insurmountable. 

But eating felt mostly good and satisfying. Calories! 

Until I was deep in the no-man's-land of The Security Line. There is no less an accommodating or less compassionate location I can think of than an airport security line for the rolling timpanis of the gut to sound their warning. I'd rather be on a mountainside, in a dessert, anywhere. Could they see in the body scanner that my gut was once again churning like children playing on a waterbed? 

I leaned on the table of bins, made it through the scanner, and then the treacherous way to Immigration. Inside me was a bomb. I was actually a terrorist. But I cleared all the checks, willing myself to be patient and compliant through them, and then it took every fiber of focus in my body to walk my way to the victorious finish line of the nearest ladies room. 

That was so close. I kept thinking: this is amazing, this is just amazing. Amazement is what I was feeling, what an experience, so inarguably specific to be in this experience.

Time to do something I've never done before. Deploy the Imodium! Some incredible thing had blessed Jen to give me her pack before she left, and something else amazing had inspired me to pack it in my tiny carry-on rather than in my checked bag. 

Now to just swallow the thing. 

It being a Mexican airport the tap water was not to be drunk. And of course I could not take any liquids through security. And from my pathetic chair I was not about to move anywhere and navigate purchasing anything. My empty bottle (that old Gatorade thing, ha!) had the tiniest rattle of drop in the bottom. I had One Chance to get this thing down. The little chalky pill clung to the back of my tongue like a scared child on the wrong side of a diving board. That tiny swig of water barely pushed it where it needed to go, and I had to do some entertaining pelican-like movements to complete the task.  

I sat and waited for my flight to board. I couldn't get comfortable with my legs down and they ached bent upwards too. I had a wave of sweaty heat pass over me, and then a wave of chills. This was actually pretty terrible. For a little while I felt the impropriety of how good it would be to lie down. Bah! Who cares. So I climbed down to the grey tiles and fetal-positioned myself half under the row of seats. 

It was surprisingly comfortable to be in this way, and the knowledge that I was doing my best to care for myself also brought some fortitude, no matter what anyone thought about that crazy gringa. When I could keep my eyes open, I studied people's shoes. From the roof yesterday to the floor today. I saw a blue pair of sneakers that I liked, and I asked their owner: are you waiting in the line for Houston? He confirmed yes, in a kind and quiet voice, and I explained my predicament to him. Later he bent down and tapped me gently on the shoulder: "we're boarding now." He and his wife walked near me down the gang plank, and when I reached my seat, victoriously I could share with them: "I made it!" 

This is terrible. But "What will happen next?" Sometimes when things are not going my way, I can get freeing glimpses of letting go. Let's just wait and see. Something will happen. We will move through this terrible situation and it will eventually be over. A little curiosity, what will happen next? And then there will be the relishing of telling the story. 

Another thing I let go of was the level of feeling bad about feeling bad. Why be hard on yourself about a situation when you're already feeling icky? I tried to just accept that I might just poop myself blind through all these airports today and that was that and not resent myself for it. 

I was able to rest on the first flight and eat a little bit. Thank you Imodium! I plugged my phone into a charger in the floor and happily noted it was charging. Good to be prepared with a good fat battery fill-up. 

I woke to turbulence and the plane landing. People were pushing off and I reached instinctually for my phone. 

It was not there. The charging cord was not there. A little sweep if panic went over me. My phone is EVERYTHING: my blogging, my photos, texting people at home. I dislike being this attached to an item, a thing, but it is also a Tool. 

My phone had shifted during flight apparently. Then did someone steal it? How far had it slid in that turbulence? 

I was down under the row of seats, deep in the land of stored Inflatable Vests and hanging seat buckles. No phone. I checked five rows ahead and behind. No phone.  By this point I was the only person left on the plane. 

Miss Flight Attendant suggested it would be best for me to "process myself" through customs, hoping that the cleaners somehow found it, to avoid wasting time and missing my connection. "And go talk with the United representatives after the baggage claim and have them radio back here to us at this gate to check." 

That sounded reasonable and like the best hope. Plus, I was not at my highest capacity for problem-solving right then. So I picked up my box and silly bag again, went past more compassion-less counters, through more scanners, and my heart would have broken when they through my avocado into the garbage, had I not been so deeply mourning my lost phone. 

I finally got to the Counter of Hope, the United airlines baggage representatives. "I lost my phone," I explained, "and I was at this gate and they said to radio them and check." I showed them my ticket.

"We can't do that," was the brusque reply from Ms Severe Blond Hair. 

What. This was all a blur. How was I possibly going to find this essential device of mine? I'd only backed up half my photos so far. I felt like crying. 

After hovering at that counter for a couple more pathetic moments, I realized "we can't do that" translated to "I actually don't know how to do that", because Ms Blond was conferring quietly with her partner, Ms Cornrows, "wait, how DO you radio gate E14." They looked something up on their single slow computer. "Gah. This thing never runs when I want it to", griped Ms Blond. "I know, right!" I commiserated. When she realized I was still there, and looking her in the face, and sharing her pain about her computer, she then launched into what was probably a very satisfying rant about slow technology and United not replacing their hulking ancient machines. My only seeming hope was to get these ladies to help me. After a few more moments of listening to her, and sharing about how sad I was about my phone, she began fussing about on her own phone. "Maybe I can call them from here", she said, then into her phone: "hey, Elaine, do you know anyone at Gate E14?" 

The airport is an enormous and incomprehensible system. They finally got to E14. My heart sank when I heard, "negative." No phone found. 

By the end of my time with Ms Blond she was calling me "hon", and had me come round to her console to fill out a Lost Item Form. How a little human connection can get you far. (Which is a thing I've noticed almost always lacking in airports, all these wearied travelers worried about their own selves and thus people are rude and self-entitled and ungrateful. Simply thanking a gate agent could be a huge change.) 

I then set off running to my next connection, which was about to board. Running was not a good feeling for my gut, but the sadness about the phone helped paint over that. 

At the gate of my next connection, on a total whim I went up to this agent...."I lost a phone...by any chance?..." And she goes, "Are you SAAAndra?" (This was Houston by the way) "We have your phone!" 

How?! It turned out that a man had found it under his seat and carried it off to the United Skymiles Club. He had somehow figured out my name from the phone (I keep it unlocked, I know I know, but I need to read maps one-handed while biking, and having to type in a PIN would be unwieldy) and then they figured out what was my next flight. All just in time for me to leave Houston. "Can I give you a hug?" I asked Ms Gate. I was so grateful I forgot everything else. "I'll pass it on to him", she said. It was my first hug in a week. 

I'll spare you all the details of the rest of the day: witnessing a fight break out over my row between two men impatient to get off the landed plane in Chicago (I saw a cane turn into a weapon), a delay, being so shivery cold in the airports in my sandals and single sweater, a missed connection, another delay. Finally getting into Rochester late at night, with intense nausea. But I was swept up by the Indefatigable Avi, brought to his house, was given blankets, warm socks, hot tea. To be with people I knew and loved. To be listened to and to release all the woe of this day. I felt so blessed and so ill. 

I was returned to Ithaca, thanks to the night owl transport services of a certain very lovely Mr Radio here I am getting to know. I could barely form sentences I was so tired and my gut on prison lock-down. 

This amazing day needed one final night-cap. I realized, due to stupid and complex circumstances, that I had locked myself out of my apartment. And it was 2am. I had been awake for 23 hours now. Bless Mr Radio for taking me in, judging me not for puking in his yard, setting up his guestroom, and going to Wegmans at 2:30am for Pedialyte and probiotics. 

Feeling very humbled by all this kindness. 

For all that discomfort and terrible travel day, this trip was never not worth it. I am just reveling in how those Yucatan biking days were so fat, so present, so rich, when traveling around a beautiful colorful sunny country. 

26 days, 881 miles, 2 jars of peanut butter, 2 flat tires (between the two of us), a group of 4 bicyclers, 2, and then solitude. 3 states, 6 ancient Mayan ruins, 4 cenotes. Carnival! Flamingos, pelicans, shooting stars. Palm trees, mango trees, ferns. The cities of Campeche, Valladolid, Tulum, Cancun, Merida. The Caribbean sea. The Gulf of Mexico. Deluging rains and amazing heat. Learning I could travel successfully in solitude. Practicing patience through discomfort, relishing the simplest of pleasures. Laughter, amazement, appreciation, gratitude.