I wake early in a stuffy Texas hotel room, the morning sun just beginning to pour over the impossibly flat landscape. Lines of cars already forming on the unknown highway below. I sit up and stretch. It takes just a second for me to realize a new pressure in my forehead. I tap in between my eyes -- jabs of pain. I swallow, my esophagus feeling like a rock tumbler full of glass. I get out of bed and it's immediately obvious: I'm sick as fuck.
I drink a large glass of water and assure myself: only a few more hours of meetings, then a quick trip back to Portland. It'll be fine.
Wrong.
The meetings are arduous. I can barely focus, but I fake it. All I want to do is sleep, but I'm 2,000 miles away from home. Things run long, so there isn't time for lunch.
Next, I find myself in the back of a car, feverishly trying to make it to the airport in time. I get out of the car, grab my backpack and run into the airport, all the while becoming more and more conscious of my fever and increasingly aching body. I'm starving, so I figure I'll grab a quick bite to eat before my plane.
Wrong.
For some reason, security is backed way up. I work my way through security and inevitably get pulled into the bomb-proof glass cage, patted down and asked a million questions. I eventually make it out, but now, there's not much time for food.
Sitting on the plane, awaiting takeoff, I put my headphones on and pull a beanie over my eyes, trying to get some sleep. Eventually, we take off and I feel like my head is going to implode. Every cavity in my skull pulsing. Excruciating. Eventually, I find a few minutes of sleep, but I wake up feeling even worse than before.
My stomach is eating itself and I'm parched. All I can think about is getting some food in my guts and drinking fourteen gallons of water. I have an hour layover in Phoenix, so I'll get some food, drugs and water there.
Wrong.
For some reason, there's a problem with the jetway -- they can't seem to get it connected with the plane. We sit there for 30 minutes while they attempt to situate things. Every time they move the jetway, an incredibly loud bell rings -- like a drill in my face.
Once I'm off the plane, I only have 20 minutes to catch my next flight. The terminal I'm supposed to be on is on the other side of the gigantic airport. I start hustling, my nose quickly becoming a mucus faucet. Additionally, it's Arizona, so it's fucking sweltering, even in the airport. Granted, my fever probably doesn't help.
Okay, so no real food, but maybe I can get some sustenance at one of those awful airport convenience stores.
Wrong.
The peoplemovers are broken. I find myself running. I arrive at my terminal, the last call for boarding already announced. I'm literally the last one on the plane. I find my seat, next to a teen mother and her small child. At this point, nothing surprises me -- I awkwardly crawl to my seat, collapsing into it. I take solace in the fact that in just a few hours, I'll be back in Portland.
Wrong.
There's something amiss with the plane. They don't give us much information, but they promise that we'll be in the air shortly. Then, the air conditioning shuts off.
Thirty minutes later, I'm sweating. No news about our departure. The tension in the cabin is palpable. The child next to me has been crying for 20 minutes solid, obviously overheated, so the mother decides to strip him down to nothing more than a diaper. Sadly, it doesn't stop his crying.
After an agonizing hour, the engines finally start, the slow hiss of conditioned air coming through the vents. I'm overjoyed. Three hours and I'll be back in Portland.
I grab my phone and headphones, intending to curl up into a ball and fall asleep to some music.
Wrong.
Dead battery.
i live there now, its pretty okay...
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