I suppose it was bound to happen eventually. All those airplanes, airports, baggage handlers, carousels—it was only a matter of time really. In a way I'm relieved. It's like a rite of passage out of the way. Now I can go to my next swanky cocktail party and, martini in hand and head swaggering ever so slightly, talk about that time I flew in to El Paso, Texas. "I don't know where they sent my luggage" I'll say, "but it wasn't El Paso!". Everyone will laugh. I'll casually sip my martini.
Sunday night I wasn't laughing. I did sip my martini.
For some reason, about four months ago, I volunteered at work to travel to the White Sands Test Facility in Las Cruces, New Mexico. It wasn't until about a week ago that I was told to make the arrangements; they were taking me up on my offer. The trek from John Wayne airport in Orange County to Phoenix, Arizona was uneventful, except for a little turbulence. I met a lovely couple who gave me some pointers about where to eat in Las Cruces. After getting a bite to eat and a tall starbucks coffee in a grande cup, I settled down in an isolated chair at the terminal of my connecting flight to make a few "I'm almost there and still alive calls".
After a couple minutes, a women came by with one of those long handled dust pans and a broom. I think perhaps she applied to work as a sweeper at Disneyland and they told her she needed to go to Arizona and spend a little more time in the minor leagues. I paid little attention to her until suddenly, it seemed to be raining. I thought at first it was my imagination, but then when I glanced to my right at the gentlemen sitting two seats away from me, I noticed they had quizzical glances on their faces and were trying to find out from whence these droplets of projectile water had come. Looking down at my pant leg, it seemed that somehow, the sweeper nazi managed to whack an abandoned cup as if going for the goal in a squash match. The cup, which was full of some liquid, we're euphemistically assuming it was water—sent it's contents spraying across five seats, primarily drenching my left leg. It's ironic given the nature of my work on this trip that it should start with flying water, but I'll get to that later.
I decided to let the incident go and optimistically boarded the plane, a small Canadair regional jet. It was very cozy but I was happy to discover that a gentleman had accidentally taken my seat, leaving an empty exit row available where he should have been. Rather than playing musical chairs for the one hour flight, he told me to enjoy the extra inch or two of leg room. Just as the flight deck door is about to close, a straggling passenger appears. This is a big dude, and as I look uneasily around me, I notice that the only open seat is right next to me. He turned out to be a real nice college football player who was going back to school after his sister's wedding—but he was a big dude. He couldn't help but overwhelm a good portion of my seat. Thankfully the flight wasn't too long and I was soon on my way to the baggage claim.
The baggage claim. Do you remember back in elementary school when the PE coach would pick an activity that you weren't particular excited about or didn't have a tremendous aptitude for playing? Two team captains would pick off the class one by one to come to their team, leaving a dwindling pool of people standing in the middle of the gym floor. Already unexcited about the prospect of a game you don't like, you nervously glance about hoping that you at least won't be the very last person to be picked.
Replace the gym with an airport, the coach with a luggage carousel, and the class with airline passengers. Those that aren't picked have to repaint the gym. That was me, standing there long after the last new bag had emerged, watching the same three unclaimed bags go round and round. Then the belt stops. Maybe they identified my bag as a winner in their contest for free valet service! Or maybe they just forgot to put my bag on the plane.
"Will you be needing any toiletry items?" the baggage clerk asks me.
Pausing for a moment to think about all the things I packed in my suitcase I asked her, "Do you have any contact lens solution?"
"No."
Ah, so it was a rhetorical question. Thank God as a seasoned traveler I had the presence of mind to put the martini shaker and "in case of emergency" vodka supply in my carry-on.