Off the Road Again
Traveling ain’t what it used to be. Too many people are flying, and the mass production of our transportation system to accommodate the masses has taken much of the pleasure out of getting from here to there.
On our way out of Houston yesterday morning, I chatted with the fellow who would be our pilot on the flight to Denver. He’d been flying since he was sixteen. He recounted to me that when he was five, he had been taken to the airport by his family, and somehow had gotten away from them. They soon discovered him descending from a Convair, one of the old prop workhorses, holding the hands of the pilot and co-pilot as he walked down the stairs. There were no security gates in 1962.
Leaving early on a Sunday morning meant there weren’t a lotta folks clogging the roads to the airport or in the terminal. Which meant that the security people had lots of time on their hands; and there are so many of them, they were tripping over each other, literally. And apparently in an effort either to be more thorough or to justify their positions, they examine and re-examine people and luggage excruciatingly. Not only did they have me taken my computer out of the carry bag, but also out of the clear plastic bag that I keep it in to protect it from dust. Then after it had gone through the scanner, another of the geeks put it through a second scanner. Um, he didn’t find anything amiss.
Flying to the Mile High City, en route to Sacramento, we were surrounded by a handful of young men who, from the volume of their conversation and inarticularity, might have been heading for a football game. They sported that meat-between-the-ears look. Our conversation with one of them, the fellow who shared our row, ended when he patriotically intoned that he thought it was just fine that there was extra security because it made us safe. Not prime meat.
The flight was over two hours, but the refreshments consisted only of a slice of pound cake, and the perfunctory beverages. Cocktails and wine, once three dollars, are now five bucks a pop, and the little bottles are no bigger. You need to bring your own victuals, because there are no decent restaurants in the terminals any more; just rows of fast-food puke-oriums, and over-priced coffee bars. If you plan to have a meal before you take a plane, plan to eat before you get to the airport.
And speaking of getting to the airport, make sure you stop for gas before you turn in your rental car. Hertz has an excellent check-in-’n-out system for self-selected premiere customers -- all computerized, no long lines at counters -- but if you don’t remember to fill up the tank, you’re gonna be dinged at a rate of five bucks a gallon.
We had a wonderful time in Galveston, though a heavy work schedule prevented us from taking advantage of the town. We did, at least, get out for meals and enjoyed delicious fresh seafood. The hotel, which charges $305 according to the sign on the back of the bathroom door, was only $129 a night for a very nice room with a great view, and all the people were genuinely gracious; not the typical tourist trap tip-lusters, but actually friendly. It probably helped that we were there off-season and there wasn’t a crush of crowds competing for their attention.
Of course, we were there on business, and the conference itself was first-rate. Organized by some Texas lawyers, they did a marvelous job of making sure everything was taken care of and no anticipatable needs were unmet. And then they went further, to make us all feel welcome, comfortable, and looking forward to visiting the Lone Star State again. Maybe in another two years, when George Bush is no longer commuting to Washington.
And that's SetonnoteS...I'm Tony Seton.
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