ATL

All good things must come to an end, and this has been a good trip. Today, we said goodbye to Ken, Sondra, Emma, and Eric, and began our long journey back to California. Our flight from New York to Atlanta was uneventful, except for a two-hour delay in departure, to which we have become accustomed by now. It wasn't until we reached Atlanta that things turned ugly.

We arrived at Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport just in time to find a very recently closed door and to wave goodbye to the pilots of our jet, which was still sitting right outside the window. The plane hadn't even pulled away from the gate yet! FAA policy apparently states that once a door is closed, it can never again be opened (How do these people ever get anywhere?), so we were not allowed to board the plane.

Fine, we thought. We'll just get on the next plane to San Diego. No problem.

We approached the ticket counter with hopeful hearts, expecting to be helped by the upbeat, cheerful attendant always featured in the airline commercials. Unfortunately, that person had apparently retired some fifty years ago and has been replaced by someone who would rather be doing anything than assisting us.

To our great dismay, it seems that about fifty other people had also just barely missed our plane and were already on a waiting list for the next flight out. Delta offered us a flight at 9:10 tomorrow morning and a blanket so that we could sleep overnight in the terminal. Kala, five months pregnant and holding an eight-month-old baby, pointed out what should have been obvious to the attendant: We were not sleeping in the terminal!

The attendant, who is apparently accustomed to sleeping under rocks, was unsympathetic. We spoke to her supervisor, who claimed that his hands were tied. We suggested that that might not be the safest way to run an airport, and that the FAA should have a policy about it, but to no avail. We were out of luck.

After a brief encounter with an irate passenger whose airplane, he claimed, had practically fallen apart around (and even on) him, we discovered that the supervisor had a supervisor. We set off to locate the queen of all terminal supervisors, knowing that if she wouldn't be able to help us, we were finished.

We approached the Great and Powerful Wizard of Atlanta humbly. We asked for a brain for the attendant, some courage for her supervisor, and a home for the four of us. She was either unable or unwilling to help with the first two requests, but she did manage to find us a hotel room for the night. After somewhat more effort than a simple click of our heels, we are finally tucked into the airport Days Inn, where they have no cribs, and where Kismet will have to sleep in her car seat. Our luggage managed to make its connection and is probably in San Diego by now, so we will have to sleep in our traveling clothes and continue wearing them tomorrow. Won't Grandpa be happy to smell, er, uh, see us when we get home!

The one positive thing about this fiasco was the opportunity it gave us to appreciate the art in the Atlanta airport. For example, as we were dragging our poor, tired bodies through the terminal to the ground transportation area, we noticed an invasion of giant ants. That gave us our first smiles of the past four hours—you know how we like giant things. As we began the half-mile hike to the hotel shuttle section of the ground transportation area (This is one huge airport!), we spotted a giant suitcase covered in license plates from around the country. This airport isn't so bad, we thought. If only we had met it under different circumstances, we could have been friends. Oh, well.

We are ready to put this whole ordeal behind us. We had expected to be home in California by now. We hope to make it there tomorrow, and we hope our luggage will be there waiting for us! Goodnight!