Later on, we meet at one of the other malls for dinner. The outdoor areas are expansive, and my daughter and I play Marco Polo trying to locate my son and his family. We probably should've walked since the shopping plaza is near out hotel, but I have the heebie-jeebies about walking across six-plus lanes of traffic, even with a walk-light. There are many choices for food, and I have trouble making up my mind, ultimately deciding on a half-sandwich of turkey club with amazing spicy mustard. The half-sandwich is so big that I actually take some of it back to the hotel to finish later.
The open mall area is family friendly. There are musicians putting on a show, which happens every Saturday evening, fountains flowing, BYOB (or buy some at the shops or restaurants and bring it outside to the ample seating), and kids are everywhere. This is not a bad thing. Kids are enjoying themselves and it's obviously a very safe area.
We hit my son's house one more time. Unfortunately, I over-burp the baby, who christens my fleece jacket (my own fault -- babies either cry or throw up on me, so I'm feeling victorious for the latter). A quick wash and dry, and I'm absolutely no worse for the wear. The baby is probably hungry again thanks to my rusty mom-skills, and we wrap up our trip with me feeling slightly guilty but extremely content to have been able to spend time with all of them and to have my daughter along.
Heading back to the airport, I stop for gas exactly where I've planned without getting lost, and I make it back to the rental area without missing the entrance like last time. Everything is wonderful, right? Right? RIGHT?!
Chris the Sweaty Rental Guy is not there. Instead, It's Cruella DeVille. She walks around the car and spots ... Oh, SHIT. There is a huge scrape along the side of the car that was NOT there when we rented it. It's obvious someone with a white car hit it when they were pulling out or pulling into a spot next to us. I quickly do a mental check. Didn't happen at the breweries - I parked away from people at one and we were the only patrons at the other. Did it happen at Chilis? At the hotel? Oh, damn. Maybe we should've walked to the Saturday mall music evening, after all.
I deny any wrong-doing. I mean, truly, we have no idea how it happened. My daughter stays mute while I say things like, "Chris said don't worry about scrapes, only dents. We went around looking at scrapes, and there were scrapes..." Blah blah blah. Cruella insists that the scrapes are NOT on the original walk-about paperwork.
"Okay, then, you do that," I remark as my daughter and I take off toward the terminal. Scrapes or no scrapes, we're not missing our flight home. The entire plane ride back to Boston, I am pissed off about the rental car. They'll probably charge my credit card. Maybe they'll call my insurance company, though I'm not sure how they do that through my license. Isn't that a bit of an invasion of privacy?
A week later, I am still wondering. I've yet to see the credit card bill or hear from my insurance company or the car rental company. But, I have come to the conclusion that paying for a scraped bumper is a hell of a lot better than what could've happened -- us driving around Charlotte and hitting two breweries without the proper registration in the car as we left it on the hotel suite's table for several hours.
It's all good, though. As it goes, we land at Logan in excellent time, find my daughter's SUV (no dents or scrapes), the parking is twenty dollars less than I'm expecting it to be, and we avoid most of the traffic back-ups on the highway north.
It kind of sucks, though, that I'll have to go to another car rental company the next time I'm in Charlotte. I think I'll take another chance on the hotel, though. I mean, I do know where the extra laundry is and how to make off with it. That has to count for something.
