Travelogue

It was not a bad trip from Denver to Pasadena — the stay itself is more daunting — but not without a few items of interest.

Got to the airport in plenty of time. I had to check bags — well, I didn’t have to, but since I really didn’t want to start my trip with a journey to the store for toothpaste, shaving cream, etc. (to be thrown out upon the return trip), I really had no choice.

Thank you for the assumption that I may be a terrorist, and thus cannot be trusted with toothpaste.

Anyway, of a miracle the lines in front of the kiosk bag check were short and a helpful United gremlin took my bags almost immediately. Inconceivable!

They’ve re-arranged the southern security area a bit — the “Oooh, aren’t you the darling Premier flyer, baby!” line is now on the east side. I trundled over to that, and gave my ID and boarding pass to the lady at the end of the non-existent line.

“Sir, since you have just one bag,” said another TSA lady nearby, “you can take this special line.” Or words to that effect. She checked my boarding pass again, and directed me over there.

That line had one of those little puffer booths, where air is blown at you (neither gently nor violently), analyzed for Evil Explosive Residue, and then you’re allowed to pass. Before I entered, I had to tray up my PC and stuff, but not remove my shoes yet. Oh, and I had to show my boarding pass.

The puffer machine let me proceed, and so I did, taking off my terroristic sandels and putting them on the conveyor, passing through the magnetometer, and having my boarding pass inspected again. Yes, that was the fourth time I had it inspected since I’d entereed the line. Though at least he punched a little hole in both halves.

I have no idea if I was waved in that direction as part of a quota, because of the Curse of Dave Hill, International Man of Mystery, or just because it was, theoretically, faster — but I don’t see how it could be faster, with the multiple pass checks, the delay of the puffer machine, the multiple putting-things-on-the-belt, etc. On the other hand, it’s on the Chi-chi Executive side of things, so presumably it’s not there to slow matters down, right?

Once through, no other oddities, except for the omnipresent posters (on both sides of security and all through the concourses) which read:

Yes, “absolutely” was in quotation marks for unknown reasons. The posters were nice-looking, but had been haphazardly taped onto everything and were often a bit torn or ragged looking. Very strange.

No, there were no subsequent screenings or inspections.

The flight, aside from being a half-hour late, was fine. We got into LAX with no problem. Took half an hour plus to get my bags on the other end, which caused me to count myself as blessed.

Hertz was an amusing circus of errors. Get off the bus. Board says I’m in stall 112. That’s a hike away, so I hike there. Car is there, but no contract. Hmmm. Won’t let me out without a contract. Did I get the number wrong? Hike back. Nope, 112. Maybe I missed it. Hike back again. Hertz gnome runs up with my contract. Thank you. I load up and head for the exit.

At the exit, the gent informs me this is not my car. He points to the description and license number. I note the stall number and say that’s what was in my stall. He nods understandingly and notes that lots of errors like that are happening today, the car is probably in an adjoining stall, and I should just take it if it is.

I park the Taurus back in 112. No sign of the Mazda promised. Harrumph. I hike back to the Gold Clubhouse. I stand in line. And stand in line. And stand in line.

Another Hertz gnome comes up to me. She seems sure I’m there to complain about not having an Everlost system in the car, which they’ve run out of today. No worries, frankly, since I know the area, it’s just part of my standard travel profile. We then have an odd mis-discussion about whether I’d gotten the car from there (the counter here) or back there (gnomes in the back room?). I explain five times that the car in #112 is not the car here on the contract.

She vanishes in a puff of exhaust, and is back several minutes later with another lady, upon whom she blames the problem. Said lady runs off to get my real car and bring it around. This turns out to be a Corolla, or Cressida, or some sort of Toyota. Whatever. It runs, it has a radio, A/C, and the right number on my magically transformed pass to get me out the gate.

And off to Pasadena Arcadia (no rooms in Pasadena except on Colorado Blvd. flophouses), where I finally eat dinner and crash (metaphorically) in my room.

Oh, when I started up my (initial, first, wrong) car, the radio was tuned to 530, the LAX traffic station. Where I got to hear about how we were all on orange alert. I felt much safer. And I’d triumped over the terrorists by having my own toothpaste in the trunk. Even if it wasn’t really supposed to be my trunk.