So forth I went, to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race.
Well, no. I actually went to Los Angeles to appear on a game show.
You can call me “Ishmael” –
Actually, it’s “Ellid.”
- and tonight I’ll tell you epic story of how my struggle was like unto a boat upon the current, beaten back ceaselessly by the stream.
Even though I actually had a very nice time once I got to LA, bought some gorgeous fabric at deep discounts, and stood upon the very same soil trodden by Judy Garland, Gene Kelly, and a host of other stars of Hollywood’s Golden Age.
In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit –
Alas, I’m not even a Denisovan, let alone a small bucolic creature with furry feet.
- or perhaps a babbitt-
Great. Now I’m channeling Sinclair Lewis.
- who, on a dark and stormy night -
Or Bulwer-Lytton, take your pick.
- when the siege and assault had ceased at Troy -
Sir Gawain, your poet is calling!
- was minded to go on pilgrimage -
Even though I’m not Catholic.
- to hear a great din on the road outside my office, the groan of leather mingling with the jangle of iron andthe tattoo of a thousand hooves.
Which is absolutely not what happened.
Ahem.
shakes self, adjusts glasses, and takes a deep breath
All of the above is my way of attempting to describe how I felt on the evening of March 5th, 2017. It was the night before I was scheduled to fly to California for what was not only my very first trip to the West Coast, but an event that was simultaneously the fulfillment of a lifelong dream, a chance to show the world what I was made of, and the means of ending an increasingly heavy burden of debt.
I speak, of course, of my appearance on Jeopardy.
I’ve written elsewhere of how I’d loved Jeopardy since childhood, how I had always wondered how I’d do if I ever was fortunate enough to appear, and how I took the online test and was called in for an audition/screen test not once, but twice. I’d resigned myself to taking the online test yet a third time by February of this year, when I finally got the telephone call asking me to come out to California to play, and part of me was still convinced it was a dream even as I booked my tickets, reserved my hotel room, and packed my suitcase.
But it wasn’t a dream. It was reality. My fifteen minutes of fame were about to begin, and it was up to me to make the most of them.
That is, if I could only get to California.
Now. This theoretically shouldn’t have even been on my list of “reasons to be nervous.” That was already plenty long, thankyewverramuch; between overtime at the office and a lingering cold I’d picked up at the Women’s March in Boston, I hadn’t studied a lick beyond a quick glance at the “State Flags’ entry on Wikipedia. Worse, I’d fallen behind on my work for my upcoming conference paper so had tucked a couple of books in my luggage instead books of trivia or general reference, and of course that lovely condition called “adult acne” had shown up about a week earlier so I had several noticeable blemishes. I did buy a Nook version of the latest World Almanac to read on the plane, but if the categories leaned toward sports, pop music, or celebrity gossip, I would be in deep, deep trouble.
My travel should have been the last thing on my mind. I’d booked it well in advance and had my itinerary tucked in my purse…except that there were ominous rumors of bad weather headed toward Denver, where I was scheduled to make my connection to Los Angeles. The possibility that my California dream might end at the Southwest departure gate in Hartford was remote, but it couldn’t be dismissed out of hand.
“It’s out of your control, Ellid,” I murmured to myself, then quoted Stephan Dedalus about smithies and souls. “Get some sleep, keep your eyes on the prize, and see what happens in the morning.”
The morning of March 6th dawned bright and lovely, the air clear and soft in a way that only can be seen in New England. I loaded my car just as the sun peeked over the horizon, gave the Double Felinoid a pat for luck, and headed to the airport, listening to the Hamilton Soundtrack to stay alert as I drove over Mount Tom and down 91 South. There was little traffic, and by the time I pulled into the self-park lot, I was in relatively good spirits. My adventure was about to begin.
It wasn’t until I was on the shuttle bus to the airport that I realized that I had my suitcase, my purse, and my wallet with me, but my laptop was still locked in my car.
It was too late to go back by then – I’d allowed myself only so much time to get through security and check in – so I gritted my teeth and told myself that I’d be fine. Hotels have business centers, you can check your email there, I thought, and remembered that I had studying to do anyway. If all else failed, I could buy a book or magazine at the airport. I’d be fine.
And so I was, at least until I got to my departure gate and learned that, just I’d feared, the Denver airport was experiencing delays thanks to high winds sweeping down from the Rockies.
This was not good. Not good at all. Even after the gate agents informed me and my fellow travelers that all flights in and out of Denver were delayed so we’d almost certainly make our original connections, I couldn’t help a sudden jolt of nerves. I didn’t have the money to book a direct flight or change my ticket to connect through Las Vegas or another city with good weather, plus other travelers had had the same idea and had snapped up the available seats. What if the weather didn’t change? What if it got worse? What if I didn’t arrive until late enough at night that I’d be a wreck the next morning?
What if I didn’t get there at all?
It was around then that the unquenchably cheerful gate agents brought out huge boxes of snacks, drinks, and other refreshment, apologized profusely for the delay, and bade us take as much as we liked. “We’ll get you to Denver and wherever you need to go,” said one, and since I was flying Southwest and not, say, United, I actually believed her.
So I loaded up on bottled water and Belvita breakfast cookies, pulled out my book, and started to take notes. By the time the happy gate agents informed us that hooray! Denver was clear! I’d made a good start on my work and was in a reasonably good mood as we lined up, boarded, and headed west with the morn.
That good mood lasted until we landed in Denver, only an hour past the time I’d originally been scheduled to land in Los Angeles. My connecting flight was also late, so the flight attendants assured me, so all I needed to do was make my original flight and I’d be fine –
Except that, thanks to the delays and tie-ups and general confusion caused by a major airport backing up for over three hours, our arrival gate was still occupied by a departing flight that hadn’t yet been cleared for takeoff.
The next half hour is not something I like to think about. We were at the airport, on the tarmac so close to the other departure gates that we could see the planes poking out of their respective berths, their distinctive blue and orange paint unmistakable against the gray jetways. We could have walked to them if they’d only let us out instead of making us wait…
and wait…
and wait….
Would I miss my connection? Was there another flight to Los Angeles? What about my suitcase? Was it all going to end here?
Just as I was about to start biting my nails down to the quick, never mind how they’d look on camera, we finally, finally jerked forward and taxied to our gate. I was up and in the aisle, ready to go, as soon as we stopped, and hurried out into the airport, boarding pass in hand. I spotted an arrival departure board and scanned it, praying that I was in time.
If I could find my flight…if Southwest would hold it for five minutes…if it hadn’t already taken off….
And wouldn’t you know it? Not only was my flight still in Denver, it was about to board my ticket group at the very next gate!
I think I might have screamed at that point, but I’m not sure.
Either way, I lunged forward, relief washing over me like a thunderstorm cleansing too much pollen from the spring air. I was in time. I would make it. Everything would be all right.
The rest of my trip was what I had originally envisioned: calm, quiet, and blessedly uneventful. We landed at LAX almost exactly three hours late, just as Southwest had predicted, and my suitcase tumbled off the baggage carousel into my eager hands after only a brief delay. My hotel was right where promised, and soon enough I’d checked in, unpacked, and cleaned up enough to go downstairs for a quick dinner before heading back to my room for the night. I showered, set my hair, and took a moment to watch the California sunset from my window before crawling into bed.
It was a lovely evenin gin Los Angeles, clear and surprisingly cool. My room overlooked the hotel pool, and as I watched the sky turn first gold, then rose, then indigo as night descended, I couldn’t help thinking that I was truly living a dream. I’d come here from Massachusetts, armed with the love and good wishes of my friends and co-workers, but whether that dream would turn out well or poorly was entirely up to me.
I stared out into the night, at the soft yellow glow of the pool, the bristly silhouette o fthe palm trees against the darkening sky. I thought of what I’d do the next day, of what might happen, and I smiled. Whether I won or lost, I was here, possibly for the only time in my life, and I was going to enjoy every minute of it.
And then I went to bed.
To be continued next week….
%%%%%
Have you ever fulfilled a lifelong dream? Had a flight delay ruin (or nearly ruin) a trip? Been stunned at just how many palm trees are in Los Angeles? Been stuck in an airport? Appeared on a game show? Now’s the time to unburden yourself, so speak….
%%%%%