This is usually an easy thing to do. I have no problem with driving him in to Logan Airport to meet his buddies as we are coming from the North Shore and they are arriving from the South Shore. I also have mastered Central Parking and have no problem sipping beer with him while waiting for his friends to show up. I need to have my tires replaced in a few days, and I'm slightly nervous that we will suffer disaster on our way in, so my son and I leave earlier than necessary to make the relatively short trip to the airport.
One thing about getting to Logan: It seems easy, but that's only if the driver/navigator is familiar with the Central Artery. Actually, managing the Northeast and Southeast Distressways (Expressways) is also a fine art, as some exits do not exist on either side, and the Southeast Expressway (which actually goes north) is always a parking lot, even at 3 a.m. on a Sunday. Traveling the Northeast Expressway (which runs south, pay attention), one must gain lanes, drop lanes, gain different lanes, then make a mad dash across several lanes to access the airport exit inside one tunnel in order to get to the other tunnel where cars drive millimeters from each other and the walls while hoping and praying the water above does not come crashing in via the poorly constructed Big Dig.
It's actually kind of fun, like NASCAR, but with taxi cabs and semis thrown in for excitement.
When we arrive at the airport, we hit Central Parking, which is a garage that is well-lit and accesses covered pedestrian walkways to each of the five terminals. Today, though, for some reason the usual parking closest to the walkway is blocked off. Instead of parking near terminal B, I'm somewhere in No Man's Land out beyond terminal A and E. I back into a space near a sidewalk that crosses from one half of the garage through the deserted better lot and finally to the walkway.
"Um, this is fabulous," I say to my son, "but I'm a little nervous about getting back to my car by myself. I might get lost." Actually, I might get kidnapped, murdered, and dumped into the Charles River. I have the world's worst sense of direction - I can get lost on a dead-end street with one hundred arrow signs pointing the way. When going somewhere, unless I have a map and two GPS devices, I'm useless.
"Mom, you just follow the striped walkway to the sidewalk, cross over into the second garage, and the car is right there." Yup, like I'm going to remember that. I try and follow his directions visually. Hmmm, straight out, then straight out, then sharp right, then left. I can do this. "Just remember," he assures me, "you're parked in 3DD. Third floor, section DD. Easy."
We take the elevator to the fourth floor, find the walkway to Terminal B, follow the signs for the airline, and are happy to find ourselves right where we need to be. We are not only at the right gate, we are right where he needs to check luggage. We are also nestled comfortably in between bathrooms and a decent bar. We are about forty-five minutes ahead of his desired check-in time and, judging by the long lines, it's a damn good thing, too, but we must wait for his pals.
Beer time!
This is awesome because my son and I get to spend some time relaxing, checking out the scenery, watching for his pals, and chatting like adults. He texts back and forth with his buddies, whose ride, unfortunately, is running late. He cannot check in without them as all of their info is with one of the other guys. Finally, his phone pings and he tells me that they are on their way and should be here in about fifteen minutes.
I tell him to order another beer because his pals are probably sitting in the great parking lot that is the Southeast Distressway. True to form, they hit traffic and text him so. It's all right - we are chilling. Finally, though, the boys are cutting it too close for comfort. We head over to the gate and text them to look for door B214 as that is exactly where the gate is. There is some method to our early madness as a van pulls up and the two friends unload at the curb exactly where they need to be.
Crisis averted, and, by the time they arrive, both the baggage check and security lines are nonexistent. It's a miracle! I hug the boys, because to me they will always be The Boys regardless of how old they are, and set off on my trek back to the car, which is parked in the middle of the Black Hole of Logan.
Dear Lord, please grant me some sense of direction and safe passage back to my car.
I pay the parking ticket at the automated kiosk, more than I expected because I stayed longer than I planned, and take the elevator to the third floor. When the doors open, I step out to a silent, deserted, semi-empty parking lot. I wish I could be parked here. This is my usual spot -- easy in, easy out -- and I have no idea why it has been blocked off with orange cones nor why I had to park so far away. I take a deep breath, grasp my pocket book a little tighter, and walk briskly to the left.
What did my son say? Follow the striped lines, then cross more striped lines, then go right, then ... I start looking for signs that say "Lot 3 AA-FF." Yup, I'm 3DD, that I remember. But, as I start crossing the striped pedestrian lines, I realize that I am walking all alone through an area of the garage with no cover whatsoever. I wonder if I am safer by myself away from anything and anyone or if I should walk between the lanes of parked vehicles where cars drive in and out (if this part of the garage were actually still open).
I move laterally and start for the drive path. I can see the two connecting mini-bridges I need to cross and hop up onto the sidewalk, still moving like there's a fire behind me. 3AA ... 3BB ... 3CC ... Aha! 3DD! I know I'm parked along a wall, so I start making a circle of the wall spaces.
Hmmm. No car.
Suddenly, I am in 3EE and then 3FF. Seriously, I'm an intelligent person. How the hell do I miss my car? I mean, section 3DD is a square, right? I raise my keys and hit the lock button, hoping to hear the car chirp at me. I am standing in the center of the wasteland of Central Parking, sending signals out like an abandoned dinghy at sea.
A few miles into the now Rush Hour traffic, I veer off and drive parallel to the highway the entire way home, hitting traffic lights but much lighter traffic, trusting the GPS and my limited sense of "I just need to head north" and make it home in about thirty minutes. A short while later, I receive a text from my son: "All checked in and ready to go." Success! We have both made it to where we are supposed to be safe and sound and, remarkably, on time and without incident.
