The 22 hour rule

It’s no secret that Dan loves to drive. Anywhere and everywhere, Philadelphia, New Orleans, Los Angeles and even Texarkana Texas, for a Saturday lunch at Bryce’s cafeteria! (Lamb stew and pecan pie--I kid you not). I’m not so enamored of long-distance drives. My legs get jumpy, I get irritable and I’m not a big fan of Dan’s books on tape (Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and the Harry Potter series being notable exceptions). Bottom line, it’s the 21^st century, give me a plane ticket and I'm good to go.

Dan’s quite vocal that he always prefers to drive anywhere he can get in less than 22 hours. Our latest adventure to Cozumel requires an airplane because it (happily) crosses over Dan’s 22-hour rule and also includes a ferry, because--island! I manage the booking, through Funjet vacations, because they'll let us depart from Milwaukee. Our outbound trip was uneventful and reinforced my superior view that air travel is the best travel. Of course, superior travel views must be crushed by reality and our return trip was anything but uneventful.

I need to back up a few days into the vacation. I had some kind of something brewing. Dan and I had four dives over two days, and took a surface day on Tuesday. Wednesday I woke up with sinus congestion and a sore throat. Never dive with congestion as it’s extremely difficult to equalize and if you are able to reach max depth you can really hurt yourself on the ascent. No worries though, in a dive community strong decongestants are not hard to find – it’s a diver’s heroin. We missed three dives on Wednesday, including our night dive. But after 24+ hours of self-medicating we were back on the dive boat Thursday afternoon for two more great underwater adventures.

On decompression day Friday the congestion returned to my chest, along with a nasty cough. We had planned a trip to Tulum, followed by a stop over in Playa del Carmen to visit an old friend. In Playa, we stopped at a pharmacy, and were surrounded by shelves full of medical miracles. I’m sure I could have purchased all sorts of narcotics or sedatives or (the mind reels) stuff that would have had some street value in the US. Geez, at the very least cough syrup with codeine. I spoke with the pharmacist, some 16-year-old, and described my symptoms. I was given a magic elixir and money changed hands. Dan was also perusing the shelves and noticed those magic blue pills that require a prescription in the States. He’s tried them, on rare occasions in the past, and I will admit it does take things to 11 (Spinal Tap reference—look it up.) Those went in the bag as well.

I stepped outside and was encouraged by Dan to take a big swallow – blessed relief on the way – only to discover I had been sold what tasted suspiciously like what every mom knows is Dimetapp. I've never felt so ripped off. By Saturday, I was done in with an uncontrollable cough, anxious to head home and first world medicine.

The first flight from Cozumel back to the states went as expected and we landed in Charlotte early. Our connecting flight was marked as delayed, so we stopped for dinner. When we returned to the gate we found that the flight was cancelled. Over at customer service we got a hotel voucher and were scheduled on the 5:30am flight to O’Hare, so now we had two flights instead of one. I coughed maniacally all night long, logged about 45 minutes of sleep, keeping Dan awake as well. We left for the airport at 4am and made the first flight.

Landing at O’Hare we were directed to the connecting gate for Milwaukee. “Everyone going to Milwaukee on this flight goes to G3!” we were told three times as we landed. We sat at G3 for about 90-minutes waiting to board. When I handed my pass over to the gate agent, it was rejected. The agent then said we were “not on a US Airways flight, we were on United.” What? How would we know that? “Look at the code,” she said. “What?” I burst into tears and she happily pointed to the exit and the United terminal. She said to Dan “This happens all the time.” Feel the love.

Dan took off in a sprint and I did my best to keep up, stopping along to way to hack out pieces of lung. As I rounded the corner of the United terminal I realized I had lost Dan in the crowd, which only exacerbated my overall sick-feeling. Ready to just sit down and give up, I heard my name from a gate and saw Dan waving me down. He was already negotiating with a gate agent to get us on a new flight, any flight, which would get me home. He had deployed the “sick and weeping wife” defense in hopes of avoiding another trip to customer service.

(This is from Dan: I push past a bunch of people to get to the front of the line, asking what gate our flight is at—it’s not on the boarding pass. “That flight left 10 minutes ago.” Where does this boarding pass with the full color American Airlines logo indicate it’s a United flight? “It’s the “U” in this line of code right here—you will need to go down to Customer Service to get this straightened out.” I look up to see my coughing, sobbing zombie wife shuffling down the aisle. I yell her name at full volume twice before she sees me. She starts shuffling in my direction. I turn back to the clerk. “In a moment you will have a very sick, sobbing woman standing here. How do we get on a plane to Milwaukee now? “Sir, as I said you will need to do downstairs to Customer Service.” In my former Customer Service days I hated when people did shit like this to me, but in my lowest, quietest my-wife-is-sick-and-I'm-done-dicking-with-airplane-people I hissed, “and where the fuck is customer service?” We stared at each other and she started typing. We had two boarding passes for a flight leaving for Milwaukee in 30 minutes in my hand before Paula reached the counter. End of Dan comment.) It worked; we were on a new flight within 30-minutes and home within 90. I love my knight in shining armor.

We figured our luggage would be waiting for us, having already arrived on an earlier flight. We were half right as one of two bags had been set-aside by the United baggage service. The United luggage attendant was super. Sizing up the situation she apologized for all of American’s failings and hustled us over to the US Airways baggage area. Looking it up in their system, our bag was safely sitting in Chicago in a US Airways terminal.

“And what was in the bag?” she asked as she typed up a claim form. About $1000 in dive gear, my tripod, most of our underwear, the souvenirs we bought and the keys we need to get into the house if we ever get home. “There’s a two year supply of happy pills in there,” Dan whispered in my ear. I think it was the first time I smiled in 24 hours.

The bag arrived home two days later—safe and sound. I know this is just a collection of first world problems, but when you're tired and sick, all you want to do is get home.

In summary, departure time from our hotel in Cozumel – 2PM CT on May 30. Arrival time at our home in Wauwatosa? 10:30AM CT on May 31 = 20 ½ hours, still beats the 22-hour rule, so what am I complaining about? And while we were on vacation, we investigated a new spot for retirement—Playa del Carmel on the mainland across from Cozumel. Affordable, colorful, and lots of fun. 85 and sunny almost every day. Close to a beach and close to diving. And you don’t need a prescription for any of that…either.

Music that resonates:

Driving all Night - The Tubes

Don't Panic

For those of you who may not be aware, the words “Don’t Panic”, written in large friendly letters, are found on the cover of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. “Don’t Panic” provides all the instruction any traveler needs to negotiate the next unknown event. A second word from the Hitchhiker’s series having particular meaning in the Johnson family is “Belgium”, the most unspeakably rude word in the universe. It’s ironic that The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, a work of fantastic fiction, contains two absolutely true references to my life.  For the last 10 years Dan and the boys tell a story of tremendous embarrassment for me as they relay the events around the irrational panic I experienced during a border crossing into Belgium. It’s time for me to own it.

The Belgium Incident, as it is recalled in Johnson family lore, is the most extreme example of my difficulty crossing a border. Sadly, there are more examples, but this blog is about Belgium.  In July 2001 we took a trip to Europe. Thanks to an inheritance from my grandpa I was able to put together a 15-day planes, trains and automobiles vacation. We’d land in London for a few days of sightseeing, take trains to Amsterdam where we’d spend a few days, followed by another train to Cologne where we’d pick up a rental car and drive to Munich, ending with the flight home.

Off we went. We had much fun in London once we got past the microscopic hotel rooms, “beam me up Scotty elevators”, mad-cow warnings and the total lack of showers and air conditioning during an unseasonably hot summer. Oh, and just an FYI, celebrating the fourth of July in London is a real faux-pas.  Finished with London we boarded the Eurostar, a fast train through the Chunnel to Brussels and a connecting train to Amsterdam.

Now I must tell you, until the recent acquisition of GPS, I have been the navigator in the family. I read maps with incredible accuracy. I can get from A to B via the straightest or most circuitous route possible, your choice. I know that all roads lead to Disneyworld and I was not at all concerned about navigation in Europe. My family was depending on me to get them seamlessly from point A to point B. 

After what felt like a many hour delay, but was probably 45-minutes the Eurostar left London for Brussels. I knew we would have a tight connection to pick-up the train for Amsterdam. As I obsessed about the unexpected lost time the first prickling of panic began to set in. When the train arrived in Belgium we were down to less than 15-minutes to make the connection. I needed to find the appropriate platform and the next train. It never occurred to me that we had just entered another country, an awareness that dawned when every sign was NOT IN ENGLISH. Yes, I was now in full on ugly American mode. 

I finally spotted a sign with the logo for Thalys, the brand of the connecting train, on an elevator with a single button. OK I inferred, we need to go DOWN as UP was not an option. (Insert accelerated breathing and increased heart rate.)  I looked around and spotted an escalator-type ramp, no stairs, just a ramp and it wasn’t moving. With family in tow I proceeded down the ramp, which suddenly turned on and began to move in the wrong direction. I started running to compensate and the family followed.

We found ourselves in a room with frosted glass walls and doors and we could see a lot of people moving on the other side. Dan stepped up and with little difficulty pulled the glass doors open. We walked through and simultaneously a few people came through from the other side. Success! Our next stop would be the correct platform. I showed our tickets to a confused looking man in a uniform. He pointed up--the direction from which we just came. Tick-tock--time was running out. 

We jumped on another elevator and when the doors opened there stood a uniformed man and a woman with a walkie-talkie. She asked us, in English (somehow she knew) if we had "forced open the doors" downstairs. At this point I stepped back and deferred to Dan as the family spokesperson, because I CAN NOT tell a lie. Dan said “no, we are just trying to get to our train.” “Follow-me” she said, walking to another elevator. It soon became clear that she was not going to take us to the correct platform.

As our little group descended into the bowels of the train station my panic rose. What had I done? We found ourselves in the security office. I wouldn’t call it an interrogation, probably due to the presence of our teenage sons, but we were questioned. Dan held up admirably. I sat with my stomach in my throat, positively nauseous. Carl and Hunter sat in chairs with the smug confidence of children who knew that the worst outcome was they’d be sent home early and alone to the loving arms of sane relatives, happily liberated from their mom’s idea of a fun family vacation.  

The woman asked Dan if he had opened the locked doors. Dan replied "of course not. You can't open a locked door". Once she translated this into French or whatever, both the pitch and volume of the conversation increased by about 30%. An older officer took charge and accused Dan of prying the doors open. Dan just shook his head no and pantomimed doors sliding easily open. Two younger guards stood at the back of the room and smiled. The entire episode ended less than an hour later, when the officer angrily stamped our passports and escorted us to an outbound train. They were more than happy to take us to the train for Amsterdam. And because we had missed our earlier reservations they had the perfect excuse to put us on a train that had been converted from hauling cattle earlier that week.  

By comparison the rest of the trip was uneventful. Dan, alone in the rental car, lost his way on the autobahn convinced that “Ausfahrt” was the largest unknown city in Germany. Hunter put four years of German language classes to work ordering ice cream treats in Bonn. Carl managed to get reasonable directions from a deaf gas station attendant in Frankfurt who only lip-read German. I was able to convince Dan that “living the dream” did not include sitting day after day on a bench begging for beer money in Heidelberg. We found our hotel in Stuttgart despite the fact that it was in the middle of a pedestrian mall. We all survived the drive from Mannheim to Munich when a tire on the rental car exploded at over 100-kph. And we managed to convince the incredulous airline ticket agent that we absolutely did not want to take a bump and stay another day, no matter how many thousands worth of incentives they threw our way.

Of course, from the moment we were on the train to Amsterdam and throughout the balance of the trip I tried to negotiate a “what happens in Belgium stays in Belgium” pact. Dan and the boys would have none of it. Since 2001 I’ve been to Belgium several times, at the behest of my employer. I still panic a bit when I travel there and I can’t help but think it is the most unspeakably awful destination there is. Happily the border guards do not have my picture on file and I’m free to conduct business in Belgium. Don't panic. 

Moving to Key West? No problem. No border.