Hotel Horror Or, Why I prefer to travel with my 6'2" Son

Last Edit November 25, 1998

In the first place, he gets to carry the luggage. (one finger - "Gee, Where do you want this, Ma?") Thinks he's cute.
In the second place, he is BIG. Big people don't get bothered.
I can hide behind him.
Or stand in front. You can do that when your back is covered.
So I troop off to the sales conference, alone. He wanted to come. I wanted to take him. The company said no. And who would feed the dog?
I leave with time to spare. So I don't rush myself. I have my new, large suitcase. I can lift it. It has wheels. It's the one I bought in Little Rock. The morning after I bought Fabio.
I tumbled the suitcase out of my truck, off the tailgate. I lock the car, pull up the handle, kick it to 45 degrees, tow it on its wheels and head for the pickup shuttle. You get to lift your own suitcase up the stairs. Hike.
It's a short lift. I refuse to be rushed.
And, I don't bother with the luggage rack. I sit down and brace it with my foot. I am in heavy cord jeans. Running Nikes. Support hose and socks. Body suit. One I am shrinking out of. Sweater and a jacket. It is chilly. I am comfortable. Layered clothes, good shoes, tied loose. Ready for planes.
I tumble the case back off the shuttle. (Short lift, pop the handle, kick it off to 45 degrees and roll it inside.)
Slick. Easy. Convenient.
I am learning to like this suitcase.
I checked it in. I got to the gate and I rested. No rush. No fuss.
I carried my medication. Most of it. Not the Medifast. It's a short flight. A few odds and ends. A book to read (read half.)
We fly - I am soo glad I have warm clothes on.
We land.
Phoenix.
I have managed to miss this airport in my previous travels. It is big (aren't they all) and under construction (aren't they all) and there are a lot of us running around (40 per plane is the risk factor limit).
Bodies with signs direct us to baggage and then out and around and downstairs and ramps and whatever to busses in some lower level. Don't ask me - I could never retrace my steps. I followed the sign people.
Like I said, I like this suitcase. It rolled along nicely. On the moving ramps I parked it and rode. On the escalator, it sat on a step. It was well behaved.
I handed it off to the bus driver. Big bus. Several of them.
We drove - how far away is the hotel anyway?. I was ready for my room.
I was ready for a nap.
I am always tired on a plane (altitude sickness, dehydration, stress, etc.) It always amazes me.
And there was no adrenaline to perk me back up.
No tall blond god awaiting at the end of the trip.
Well, it turns out that there was, but not the one I wanted.
We finally arrive and I am ready to grab my suitcase, check in (you knew with nearly 900 people coming in there would be a line) and find my roommate and my room. She had been on the same plane. I had misplaced her.
A bouncy, perky bellhop (as I identified later - they always wore bright black and gold vests) bounced onto the bus. He declared with great glee that, "We will take your bags and they will be delivered after you check in". 20 minutes after.
No, I don't think so. I am tired. I need my Medifast ASAP. I want to know where my things are. My id stuff is in the bag.
Nobody warned me about this.
I didn't plan for it.
I did have money in my jeans to tip a bellhop to carry the bag. I am not beyond doing that.
Not to leave it and stumble around in an unknown place separated from my security blanket.
"No. I need my bag," I said.
I was ignored.
I depart this joy ride (full contract tour bus, padded seats. A clue to the distance.)
I go to the back ready to tip the person handing out the bags. Not fast enough. Mine is already in a nest of at least 40-50 others. They are bunching up in groups.
I take mine. Pop the handle, kick it over and rolled it away.
I made it across the driveway. I made it down a sidewalk. I was faced with stairs. No ramp.
I decided to investigate the real portability of those wheels I paid $200 for.
I was up 2-3 steps and deciding how this was working when suddenly a rather large young man accosted me at a dead run from the baggage pile across the street and behind me.
He was after my suitcase. He was in my face. He was in my personal space. He moved too quickly, so unexpectedly that I was startled and nearly went over backwards and off the stairs. I have a fear of breaking my hip. My grip on the bag handle kept me from falling. I twisted my back. I evidently opened the hernia as I twisted (torqued) and fought for balance.
We now know I did exactly that. Then, I just wanted distance between me and this person who had startled me.
Years of self-defense said "get distance". Adrenaline rush said "danger". The near fall said "danger". I had a definite flight response. The kind where training kicks in and you do not think it out - you get away. If I couldn't take the bag with me, I would have dropped it. And run. I couldn't remember where the rape whistle was - it was in the bag.
Never, ever accost a woman that way.
Certainly not an older woman.
Certainly not on a stairway.
He wanted to carry it up the stairs. But, by then, I didn't trust him.
I lifted the bag and moved faster than I had intended. Awkward and clumsy, I made it to the top of the stairs. Bags with rollers need to be towed, not lifted. I banged my shins. I got really, really pissed. That's the reaction after fear. Anger.
I made it to people, the check-in line., parked the bag, sorted myself out and proceeded to check in. They handed me a back-pack and an 8lb. notebook. We should have received those later.
I grabbed the bag, kicked it over to its wheels (I have gotten good at that) and towed it down a rabbit-warren of walkways to the room. My roommate knew where we were. We had maps. We needed them. Levels and stairways were confusing even four days later.
I was in my room, medicated, Medifasted, and completing tasks and resting before my roommate's bag even appeared.
She also had medication she needed and she was pacing and fretting. It was more than 20 minutes after check-in. She was ready to go out hunting for it. I was searching for the phone number.
I am sure that, amid the 900 people, we were not the only two who should have been told about this little variation in procedures from traveling alone so we could have been better prepared. We wouldn't have had separation anxiety. We should have had better information about travel time from airport to hotel. Warned about the baggage brigade. Given options. Or, even better, directions about the hotel ahead of time - like a map. There was an elevator. I didn't know about it.
There were others there on medication - perhaps theirs would all fit into their carry-on. Lucky them.
Mine did not. But I would have carried a bigger satchel and planned differently.
Anyway, I kept myself on-track and watched my system and took medication as required and prescribed.
By Wednesday I was aware I was in more than usual trouble. Things were not passing through the system. I was thirsty all the time. A clue.
By Thursday I was actually in far more serious trouble than anyone thought, including myself. I just knew that I felt terrible, I wanted to be home and that I had other things there to use that would, I thought, correct the problem.
It's how I ended up with the witchdoctors.
I took a full Xanax tablet Thursday morning instead of half, and a half one later when the first wore off. It's a muscle relaxant.
It saved my life.
It's called the hand of God.
It was not my time to go yet.
Someone was watching over me.
Thank you.