Traveling by air these days just isn’t fun like it used to be. The inability to get a decent seat on an airplane without paying niddling “upgrade” fees begins the process, followed by overzealous young wannabe cops at security stations.
I have traveled over 1,600,000 actual air miles in the past 30 years. The vast majority of that travel was for a former job, where I was on the road about 280 days/year. I got to see a lot of interesting things and meet great people, and do a lot that others thought was helpful. I spoke at hundreds of conferences and attended thousands of meetings. I visited every state and territory of the U.S. dozens of times, as well as 56 foreign countries. (I don’t consider Canada “foreign” and have been blessed to have been to every province and territory of that lovely land dozens of times, and having been made an honorary citizen years ago.)
Being away from home, with two days here and three days there, often going from point-to-point, was very exhausting. It wasn’t unusual to awaken in a strange hotel room and wonder where I was, what time zone I was in, and what day of the week it was. I took to making a simple sign that I left on the nightstand with that information, “you are in ___ and today is ___ in the ___ time zone.”
I changed jobs and do not travel as much. That’s good. I’m sick of it. Yesterday on my way home from a conference in Kansas City (MO), the kid at the security station squinted at my passport and asked if I had a driver’s license instead (?? what ?? I guess he had never seen a passport before at this supposed “international” airport). Then another security kid demanded to inspect my carry-on bag to remove a can of Coca-Cola. OMG, yeah, right, I’m gonna terrorize the pilot by shaking up the can and opening it to spray it on him, or something. I know this kid was following orders, but the orders are just absolutely silly. Just goes with these days in America where everyone assumes an insultingly greater authority and looks over his shoulder for terrorists. (Like the little old lady in the wheelchair who was patted down behind me. Oh, gimme a break!)
Oh well, I tried to have some fun by wearing my Olathe Buckaroo Boots with jeans tucked in at the airport. Actually, I wore my black Dan Post Ostrich leg cowboy boots through security, because they are easier to take off, so as not to delay a line. (This airport is so dinky, it has only one magnetometer to enter the gate area. I’ve always laughed at little airports like this that call themselves “such-and-such International”.)
I gave my fellow travelers a little show by pulling out my Olathe’s from a sack (what they call a bag in that part of the country), putting my Dan Post boots into it, then rolling my sock over the bottom of my jeans and pulling on those beautiful tall Buckaroos. Left foot first, of course!
One old lady and one young woman in KC said, “nice boots.” The pilot of the plane also complimented them. When I had to change planes in Charlotte, some nitwit at my arrival gate said as I got off the plane, “where’s your horse?” I ignored that one, but then someone else said the same thing just a few minutes later. This time I said, “he got stuck in the back of the plane and will be out in a few minutes.”
I stopped for lunch in mid-concourse, and sat in a big white rocking chair while eating and watching people during my two-hour layover. About a dozen people said, “nice boots” and a few more were asking where my horse was. To those people, I said, “he’s getting a bite to eat over there,” and pointed. Derned enough if each and every one of those fools looked where I pointed. Ha ha.
Finally arriving at my home airport of BWI, I was met by my cousin who works there. We retrieved my bag, and he took me to the private pilot’s parking area, where I can park for free. My cousin saw the boots and smiled. He said, “I see you’ve been doing some shopping!” He knows me well.
I stopped by the grocery store on the way home to get myself some milk (my partner always forgets that I crave milk when I get home) and some stuff for a couple elderly friends of mine. I dropped off their groceries and they also complimented the boots. Neither asked me about a horse.
Finally arriving at home, I discovered much to my chagrin that my partner had waxed our hardwood floors. Carrying my one piece of luggage through the foyer almost landed me on my butt due to the combination of being off balance, wearing boots that are not quite broken in and still have very smooth leather soles, and the slippery freshly-waxed floor. I put the luggage down and tiptoed into the dining room to take off the boots and my socks (which would have been just as slippery). I then made my way upstairs to unpack and load up the clothes washer.
Well, I guess the horse found better pasture, because he didn’t follow me home. Perhaps one of the fools in Charlotte found him and led him away.
I sure am glad to be HOME! I enjoyed cooking a home-cooked meal for my partner and recanting the journey with him, then snuggling later without any TV, computer, or phone. We turned all that off and turned our attention to each other. He sure made me feel welcome, at home, safe and sound. And that’s how it should be. (Plus, I never could have trained a horse to scratch my itches the way my partner does.)
With over 130 pairs of boots in my collection (and I regularly wear most of them), places to put them has been running out. My partner is a very patient man, but he insisted that we do something about “all those boots” this weekend.
