Part 1: How to avoid injuries by sitting on your helmet.
(NSR, scroll for ski stuff)
The first camp spot of our trip was a delightful corner of floor by the escalator between a Chinese restaurant and the delta sky club lounge at Atlanta airport. It was an unplanned bivy and we were poorly equipped, having foolishly not brought enough extra clothing, let alone sleeping bags in our carry ons. Our sleep was fitful at best, interrupted once by the realization that a water bottle in one of our bags/pillows was leaking and we were now wet, and more frequently by disgruntled delta sky club members trying to get into the closed lounge and the delivery of noodles and lettuce to the Chinese restaurant. Periodically, a robot proclaimed over the airport sound system that an emergency had been reported in the building, advising us to please stand by. Presumably this is an automated announcement triggered when disgruntled passengers throw laptops and other carry on items at delta employees.
This is a connecting tunnel between two terminals. It has carpet, mood lighting and jungle sounds are played over the speakers. We did not sleep here because it was full at bed time.
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Lying on the cold faux marble floor at 3 am I found myself reflecting on the conversations I had had during the previous hours of standing in line with my fellow travelers.
The lines themselves were a thing of wonder. In each terminal, rows of stranded delta passengers stretched beyond the visible horizon. Waves of collective shuffling rippled down the line every half hour or so, two steps of many on the long road leading to the attentions of approximately three and a half delta ticket agents per thousand passengers.
Elderly people in wheelchairs exuded misery. Parents comforted tired children while listening to the hold line jingle of the delta phone hotline, comparing stats about how long they had been in said hold line (“We've been on hold for two and a half hours now” - “Wow, that's amazing! You all are early adopters of the double phone and waiting in line strategy, it's been just an hour for us!”).
The person next to us in line was a tall, white haired man, probably in his 70s. Tanned and active looking, and with a slight Wohlstandsbauch (the English language fails to provide an adequate word for this concept), he was either coming from or going to his retirement home in Florida, I don't recall, though at that particular moment he was of course doing neither, caught up in the perfect storm swirling around the world's busiest airport, as were we all.
B terminal line to help desk, near the half way point. All the other terminals had the same kind of lines during the duration of our stay.
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After accidental eye contact on my part and without further introduction he began musing about a 36 hour flight on a propeller plane that took him and his platoon (?) to Vietnam in '67. My socio-cultural upbringing in Europe has left me unprepared for conversing with strangers in general and Vietnam vets comparing Atlanta airport to wartime bush flights in particular. I was still struggling to come up with an appropriate response, when the young woman on my other side casually mentioned that she, too, had done Vietnam last year and boy, getting there sure was a bother. This provoked only a brief pause and a single, slightly raised eyebrow on the man's part. Before I had time to descend into further spirals of conversational culture shock induced anxiety, he launched into a detailed explanation of how he had taken to sitting on his helmet during all those flights in Vietnam. The Vietcong, after all, wouldn't be shooting at them from above and if you sit on your helmet they can't shoot off your balls from below.
“...uh. Wow, haha,” I responded eloquently.
“So. Germany. Merkel, right? You guys are doing pretty well. You seem to have your economy together!” he changed the topic.
“Uh. Well. Uh, I guess maybe?” I mumbled.
“Things with the economy are sure getting interesting around here what with the new government and all,” he proceeded.
I fled to the restrooms.
We eventually got rebooked onto a flight 48 hours from now and put on the standby list for everything between now and then and curled up on our corner of faux marble.
We awoke to a dawn of neon light that looked much like the noon, dusk and midnight of neon light. Not particularly refreshed but with a renewed feeling of hope, we got back into the first of many lines we would enjoy that day.
I will skip a detailed account of the rest of our stay in Atlanta. It involved several failed attempts to fly to SFO (flights cancelled due to missing crew and missing plane, respectively), an attempt to fly to San Jose (flight cancelled, missing pilot), and, finally a successful flight to San Fransisco (missing boarding agent located just before time out of pilot and crew) that took off about 30 hours after we arrived. We checked into our Holiday Inn in Berkeley around 7am local time and slept for a bit. Revived by Cheeseboard pizza and the American interpretation of coffee cup sizing (the word espresso implies the amount of coffee you will get, as does the word cappuccino. Neither should be available in small, medium, or large) we picked up C from Oakland airport and proceeded to sleep some more.
Collection (incomplete) of boarding passes I received in Atlanta.
After a lovely morning spent with distinguished friends and makers of amazing waffles and other baked goods K & R, we hit the road in our rental Jeep Renegade, dream car of any off road enthusiast who drives exclusively on city streets. By evening we reached South Lake Tahoe, just in time for a quick meeting with T and Y, globetrotting Patagonian friends about to embark on a surf road trip to Central America. We were all relieved to have made it into the United States of America, for a variety of reasons, and enjoyed vegan burritos and a flat IPA in South Lake.
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