Troublesome Travel Turned Golden

My-size hay bales waiting patiently for pickup alongside U.S. Highway 412 in Siloam Springs, Arkansas.

On the last day of a solo trip, I try to fight it, I try not to let it overcome me, but there's a significant wave of melancholy that washes over me. It just always ends too soon, and I'm left wishing I could continue indefinitely. Even after a 2,716-mile independent adventure, driving from the flatlands of Fargo, North Dakota through the wide-open Great Plains and down to lovely Little Rock, Arkansas, I would've happily put another 3,000+ miles on that rental car. I would've loved to head back west for the Oregon coastline, maybe up into Canada then on to Alaska. But instead, I dragged myself to the airport with a heavy heart, trying to take in every last sight and sound around me, like savoring the last slurps of a triple-scoop cookies-and-cream milkshake.

So off I went, out of the garage beneath my sweet little hotel room ten stories above it, through the quaint streetcar-equipped city streets to the place I dread like a punch to the head...the airport. I know I should love them because they enable me to travel far and wide, but if I could, I'd drive from NYC to Bangkok, Bangkok to Antarctica, and just about anywhere and everywhere in between. And I'd avoid airplanes and airports the way I avoid the icky, germ-infested doorknobs at a pediatrician's office. Flying is not my favorite. Nope. For me, it's more of a necessary evil that gets me where I want to go.

So I maneuvered my rental car behind a long line of others, put her in park, took a picture of the mileage, gave her a pat on the dash then quite unhappily opened the door to exit. I popped the trunk to be suddenly and painfully reminded of my extremely overstuffed suitcase and how last night the zipper did the worst thing a zipper can do. You know, that godawful zipper thing when you go to pull it closed, but instead it stays open, and now you've just got a zipper stuck in the middle of two open ends of zipper track? After whining, grunting, sweating, and stomping things into my suitcase for a good long while, all by myself the night before in my hotel room, I eventually, got my massive purple suitcase packed and ready to go. Too pregnant to stand on its own without falling forward, I had to prop it up against the wall all night. It was a shameful sight. I remember the flash of fear that struck around midnight, "What if this thing just explodes while I'm at the airport, or on my way there, or worse—while it's in the underbelly of the plane!?"

I took another deep breath and whipped that beast out of the trunk with all my might. Still in the car were more heavy bags. One was a massive, multicolored tote, packed to the gills and most definitely on the border of exceeding the size limit for a carry-on bag. One of its key components was my not-so-enormous camera bag, that held a very expensive (borrowed) Canon camera with two lenses, binoculars, chargers, memory cards, and a manual. Bag number three was a faded, American-flag print, Jansport backpack, also nearly busting at the seams with souvenir rocks, t-shirts, sweatshirts, my laptop, and way too many stolen hotel pens, and anti-motion sickness aids. And finally, I had my oversized pocketbook containing far more than simple purse and wallet contents. I had no choice, but to try sneaking three carry-on bags, even though most airlines only allow one and one "smaller personal item." And boy, was I in for a treat!

So again, off I went, carrying more than my body weight on my arms, back and rolling at my side. As I waddled past the men checking in the rental cars, one asked, "You got all that, miss?" Really not having all of that, I replied, "I do, thank you!" As I continued to struggle my way through the garage and towards the airport, I noticed that everyone was staring at me. Stopping their rental car transactions, pausing from lifting their luggage, and just watching with grave concern, waiting for me to inevitably fall, which is exactly what I did just before exiting the rental car ring. The suitcase rolled out in front of me, and a foot slipped under the wheel because my weak ankles couldn't pivot around it fast enough. The extreme weight of my flamboyantly colorful, paisley-print Vera Bradley bag, my overstuffed backpack, and jumbo purse just couldn't be shifted in time – so they pulled me to the floor as my rogue suitcase flew from my hands landing perfectly, hard side up, in front of me. Naturally, I tripped over the 50+ pounder, falling face-first on top of it then rolling off of it onto the pavement with my many bags somehow not breaking my fall. It's ok to laugh. Please laugh – that makes it all the more worthwhile. That, and every ounce of souvenirs that I clearly couldn't live without.

People rushed to my aid the way zookeepers would tend to some massive prehistoric turtle who'd fallen on its shell, with feet and arms flailing in the air. "Miss, are you alright?" "Oh, miss, you really took a tumble there! Are you going to be ok?" With charming southern twangs and helping hands, perfect strangers brought me back to my feet and helped collect my scattered belongings. Thanking everyone profusely and assuring them that I'd just lost my footing and I'd be fine while trying not to burst into tears over my screaming bloody knees, throbbing cut palms, and sheer embarrassment. I began to wonder if it really was physically possible to carry all of this stuff all the way to check-in, then slightly less of it all the way to my boarding gate, then transfer to my next plane in Chicago, then on to New York, all while being heavily sedated on the drowsiest form of Dramamine I planned to take the minute I was able to buy a bottle of water. Unfortunately, heavy-duty Dramamine and anti-motion sickness Sea-Bands are the only hope I have for not feeling sick on a plane. I can't even swing on a bench for more than a few seconds without feeling all kinds of ick.

But that's the thing about traveling alone...you have to rely on YOU. Sure, it's a heart-warming surprise when a stranger stops to help you out, but you can't depend on it. You're on your own. There's no one to wait with your luggage while you use the restroom. All those bags have to come in the stall with you. And there's no one to complain to about how bad your knees, back, and ego hurt—and it was kind of a blessing because it forced me to be strong for me in that moment. It wouldn't have benefited me one bit to break down, freak out, and throw a temper tantrum in the middle of the airport. It wouldn't have gotten me home and happy any faster. Nope, I had to toughen up and keep on trekking on. And that's just what I did. I found an elevator, entered it, instantly dropped everything for a second of relief, then picked it all up again, and headed to check-in.

I dropped my bags at the end of the line for American Airlines. Although there were folks waiting in front of me and piling up behind me, I still kept my bags on the floor, dragging them like the dead weight they were, only when absolutely necessary. I was sweating, exhaling audibly, and lugging way more than a 4'10", 101-pound person should ever haul. I was most definitely a spectacle and completely unfazed by it. My heart pounded against my chest as I approached the counter for weigh-in. In hindsight, I should've just accepted that there was no way that bag could've been under the 40-pound limit, but I'm an eternal optimist, so I was still somewhat hopeful. I watched panicked as the numbers on the scale skyrocketed. They finally landed on 53.4. The lady checking my bag didn't even give me the option to take 13.4 lbs of stuff out of my bag and try to jam it into a carry-on. "Miss that will be $100 for your well-overweight suitcase and I'm afraid you're going to have to check that duffle bag as well, it appears to exceed the carry-on size limit." Panic mixed with nausea rose within me, "But are you sure about the duffle? I've flown with this as a carry-on with American before—actually I flew with it on my way in. But that was in—" "I'm sorry miss, perhaps the bag was less full then. You'll have to check it for an additional $35." "But I've got breakables in there—a camera—I can't check it!" With no sympathy whatsoever she replied, "You can't carry it on." Frazzled, I told her to hang on so I could rearrange some things. I held up the line while I opened the belly of the colorful bag that had never been checked before. I pulled the camera bag out and started to worry about having three carry-ons. "Will I be allowed to board the plane carrying these?" She didn't really answer, but she advised that the gift shop upstairs might have a smaller bag that could house my camera bag and my purse. Ka-ching!

So up the escalator I went, to spend some more money and hopefully get myself and my belongings home. I spotted a large tote bag in the only gift shop before security in Clinton National Airport for $79.99. Before buying, I asked the cashier, "Do you happen to know if this bag is the right size for a carry-on?" After a long pondering pause, "Ummmmm...I'm not so sure." "Hm, ok, would it be alright if I just asked a TSA agent right outside?" In no hurry at all, but still being helpful she replied, "I'll give 'em a ring." I heard two Southern drawls go back and forth for a bit before she told me that TSA didn't know either. Apparently, it's up to the airlines what size bags they allow. So I quickly concocted a master plan. "Would it be ok if I left my wallet, keys, credit cards, phone here with you in exchange for running this bag out of your store just for a minute to ask American if they'll let me carry it on?" I could tell she was a bit taken back by my energy and how fast I was talking, but she ultimately agreed. So with less than 50 minutes till my flight boarded, and a line filling up fast at security, I snatched the bag in question, left my purse, and sprinted down the escalator back to AA's check-in. I could tell the agent was less than thrilled to see me back again, so I politely waited in line again just to ask her this one question. When I finally arrived at her desk again, her verdict was a hard, swift, "No, it's not regulation size."

Exasperated, defeated, and muttering to myself like the loony New Yorker I very well may be, I headed back up the escalator. "But really, why sell the bag here if I can't use it as a carry-on?" I asked the universe rhetorically. I traded the overpriced non-carry-on bag for my purse and made my way to the x-rays. Making my way through effortlessly, I hoped the worst of my morning in Little Rock was over. But still feeling unsettled about having three carry-on bags as opposed to the two we're allowed, I decided to approach the AA desk at my gate. I did my best to mask any trace of grump on my face. Putting on my best smile and putting forth my kindest manners, I explained the situation at hand, "...and you see, these two bags are really small enough that they could fit inside one carry-on bag, I just can't seem to find one here at the airport. Will that be ok?" "Well miss, unfortunately, not. You see we have a strict one carry-on, one small personal item rule, and we're unable to make any exceptions." Feeling a sharp pang of no-effing-way rise up within me, "But you see that these bags could easily fit within one, right? I mean, what if I just held them like this? Together they're the size of one carry-on bag." Not budging an inch he replied, "I'm sorry miss, but rules are rules. Unless you can find a bag to contain those bags, you're going to have to check one." I didn't mean to, but the gloves were coming off, and patience and sanity were hiding wherever the right size carry-on was. "Look, I've already had to check two bags today, so I won't be checking any others, and these ones contain my laptop, camera, and fragile personal items, so carrying them on is really my only option. This just doesn't make any sense to me. If I had a bag to hold the two bags, it'd be fine, but because I don't, it's not?"

Sensing our mutual frustration with each other, another, far more stern flight attendant approaches. We get her up to speed, and she insists that if I cannot find a bag to hold my other two bags, they'll be forced to check one of them. And I insist that I am carrying these three bags on the plane today, “You can have me arrested when I land in Chicago, but I am making it out of Little Rock today with my three carry-ons and two checked bags!” oh no, I had officially lost it. Usually when an altercation escalates to this degree it can only go further south, of course by escalating even further. But just then, a brilliant idea popped into my head! I knew there wasn't a bag to be bought this side of security, but I also recalled seeing blankets for sale a few kiosks back. So I said, "Oh, you know what, nevermind. No worries…thank you for your time." They probably thought I was having some kind of mental breakdown, or going to fill up water balloons with urine to bring them back and pee bomb them. But it didn’t matter what they thought. I’d concocted a plan that would stick it to them and satisfy them simultaneously! Maybe I really had cracked, but plan blanket was in effect. And it was cheering me up in a hurry.

Besides, what difference did it make if the bags were in another bag or out of a bag or being held together by some massive clothespin or wrapped up in a blanket like a hitchhiker's stick and bindle? $25 later, I brought a big black blanket back to the gate, plopped myself in the first seat I could find, sat my bags beside me, then unrolled the large square of fabric onto the floor in front of me. A woman and her husband facing me diagonally, watched semi-amused, but mostly confused as I carefully placed the two bags in question at the center of the blanket and began folding each corner up and in. Quickly, I had my very own, giant bindle.

The woman across from me was officially amused and just couldn't contain her curiosity any longer, "What on earth? Why?" So I explained the whole thing to her. She and her husband were captivated and so sympathetic. He couldn't wipe the smile off his face, and she was appalled. "Well, if that isn't the most ridiculous thing—you know, they've gotten so out of hand with this carry-on nonsense—so choosy. This bag, not that bag, check this, can't carry that. It's such a shame…you know, I work for the airline." My eyes widened, "You do?!" "Oh I sure do, and you know what, I'll take that extra bag on for you. They'll never know." "Oh, no, I couldn't let you do that." "Of course you can! I'm allowed three carry-ons because I'm an employee. I'll give it back to you sneakily once we're on the plane." I couldn't believe this was happening. What were the odds?! I was speechless. Overcome with gratitude. "What can I do for you? What can I give you? Are you hungry?" She laughed and looked at her husband. He was laughing too. And then she looked back at me, "Girl, you can take your bags out of that damn blanket, that's what you can do." She cracked us both up saying that. And just looking at the lumpy sack of stuff that sat on my lap, she shook her head in disbelief that I'd actually buy a blanket to be my carry-on. Her husband, Leo, still laughing, but also impressed said, "Now that's some creativity!" We all laughed together, but I was dead set on doing something for Myra in return. "How about this water bottle from a national park up in North Dakota? I've never used it! Do you like it? It's yours!" "No, no, I don't want your silly bottle," she smirked. I pulled a balled-up souvenir shirt from my bag, "How about this? Want this?" "Put your damn clothes away, child! You're just determined to give me something aren't you?" "YES," I exclaimed, "You have no idea how much you're saving me right now!" With more, much-appreciated sympathy, "You poor girl, I can't believe what they've put you through today." "Myra, what can I give you? Seriously, how about some snacks for the flight? Or some headphones? These I have used." Modestly she suggested, "How 'bout that blanket? I tend to get cold on the plane." "Of course, it's yours! And here, have my neck pillow too!" She rolled her eyes at me the way my mother would but accepted graciously.

We chatted for a while. I told them about how I had driven down from Fargo by myself and how I was on a mission to chase tornadoes. They thought I was insane but found me entertaining. "Hey, Lauren, we've got to strategize how you're going to get your third bag on from Chicago to NY!" Chicago was their final destination. “Wow! Good thinking, Myra!” She and I literally practiced how I'd hold and walk with the bags. She showed me where each one should go, "See, just like this—no one's gonna notice. You'll be fine. And if they say anything, just say, Little Rock let me do it, so—but you'll be fine, don't worry."

We boarded, effortlessly. Myra snuck my bag back to me, as planned, and fell asleep before we took off, nuzzled in her new blanket and neck pillow. I grew so fond of her in such a short period of time. I told her repeatedly she was my guardian angel. She got a kick out of it. And once our flight landed, late in Chicago, and I only had 23 minutes to change terminals and catch my final flight to New York, Myra was the first one clearing the aisle and announcing that a young lady with a tight connection was coming through. Again, she reminded me of my mom as she quadruple checked me, before I left, "Ok, you got every—you got it. Ok, just like we—you know. Ok, stay safe, take care of you. You'll be fine! Thank you for the—ok, go!" I had tears in my eyes saying goodbye to her. I thanked her as much as I could once more, "I loved meeting you so much. I really, really can't say thank you enough. Safe travels. I hope we meet again someday. And you too, Leo, take care of our girl!" They were such wonderful people, and they were such a welcomed gift on such a brutal travel day for me. I made it through O'Hare International with flying colors and breezed right through the boarding gate. Thanks, Myra*.

*Names have been changed to protect saintly individuals from any potential implications.