About ninety minutes before I actually have to be there, I double-check to make sure that I can find the parking garage section that is closest to the international terminal. I've only parked at the outside mini-lot for that terminal before, and I am unfamiliar with the Terminal E part of the garage. Before I hit the Logan site, I check the Aeromexico site for the flight status.
Damnit!
The flight is running thirty-five minutes early. Shitdamnfuckmylifeandhellinahandbasket, I have to get my ass in to the airport. Sure, sure, sure; they still have to clear customs, but there goes my relaxing down-time (and possibly beer time). I quickly check the garage map and make sure I know where I am going, then I check Logan's ETA for the flight.
Boston still lists the flight as arriving at 9:35. Bullshit. I trust the Mexicans on this one. After all, they managed to keep the airport intact after three earthquakes in several days. I'm getting my fat ass to Logan. No problem. I'm only twenty minutes out.
Until I hit Somerville. Some dumbass politician has granted roadway work crews the brilliant idea of doing road work on a Saturday night. Saturday night! Jesusmaryandjoseph, probably the busiest night of people trying to get IN to the city, and they're working on the inbound side of 93 at the Sully Square interchange. One lane. That's how many lanes are open on the highway into Boston. One. Damn. Lane.
Stupid fucks.
I sit and I sit and I sit and I sit and I sit and I sit and I sit in that traffic for forty-five minutes. Now I am panicking because if my daughter texts me upon arrival, I cannot respond. It is illegal to text while driving (although I am technically parked at the moment), and there are cops standing around everywhere getting paid ridiculous amounts of money to do a flagman's detail on a Saturday night in the city.
Finally, I break free, clear the underpass, and fly two lanes over to the right, cutting off an eighteen-wheeler (sorry -- I never do that -- it's rude and it's slightly suicidal) to make the 1A exit for the airport. Once inside the tunnel, my car makes a horrid sound like it has been hit by gunfire. I must assume that I have run over a rock and that it shoots out through the wheel-well. Oh, well. Hope I don't crack anyone's windshield behind me.
It's 9:03. My daughter texts me the plane has just landed and they are waiting to be waved in.
Once inside the terminal, it takes me a few minutes of confusion and disorientation to realize that I am on the departures floor and not the arrivals floor. No problem; that's what escalators are for. Luckily, there is zero chance of being at the wrong gate. Customs will feed every international passenger through the same set of glass doors. I check the board. Three planes have arrived from far destinations within the last hour: Germany, England, and Mexico. I join the masses waiting at the guardrail.
A few sun-kissed people come through the doors, but mostly they are tall, determined, self-assured passengers, many of whom are blond. Ah, the flight from Frankfort. This group is followed by tired looking people in sweaters and coats, jockeying tired tots in prams, many of whom have shocks of red hair. London; definitely London.
Finally, after about thirty minutes, a stream of happy, relaxed, tanned people meanders through customs. Aha! The people who are not operating on backwards time: Aeromexico. I greet my daughter and her pals, and, just like that, we are back to the car in the garage inside of ten minutes.
We hit a little bit of traffic on the way home, but I point across the bridge and sneer at the construction on the other side. "One lane," I tell them. "One. Damn. Lane." Quickly, Boston fades behind us and the road opens before us. "Now," I say, "Tell me about Cabo." And they do.
