Saber Toothed Tigers at Every Turn

Travel is exactly like real life. Occasionally it’s exotic and adventurous and filled new experiences and sunshine and cocktails festooned with frilly umbrellas and tropical fruit and sometimes it’s simply frustrating and you’ve forgot to pack some Advil for that throbbing tension headache. But most of the time travel is peppered with small hassles and salty language balanced with small triumphs and amusing chuckle inducing moments that all ultimately works out just fine. The remote possibility that one’s flight may land in the Hudson keeps one attuned to those safety announcements and adds that element of risk we all need. Really now, we’ve evolved from the threat of being eaten by a saber-toothed tigers but we’re still teetering on the brink.

A trip to Chicago in late February is not ideal. Residents are weary of winter, the grimy accumulation of roadside ice does not bring to mind Norman Rockwell-esque winter wonderland scenes. I was in luck. I emerged from the O’Hare dungeon to temperatures about 50. Ice was still visible but also apparent was the optimism that spring was flirting with us from just around the corner. People were emerging from their cocoons of heavy coats, scarf and mittens. Never one to be content to watch from the sidelines I felt the irresistible urge to join the joggers, stroller-pushing moms, tennis-ball toting dogs straining at the leash, and cane-wielding, stooped old men shuffling along. Yes! I would emerge from the C.T.A. before my designated stop and walk! Woo hoo! How great! I could practically feel my toes wriggle in the freshly mown lawns of summer. I might even have heard the frostbitten birds chirping had I not been plugged in to Party Killers of the Seventies. I marched along, dragging my roll-aboard like a reluctant toddler, dodging mud and ice and detritus with grace. Until…(you knew this was coming, didn’t you) I was stopped short by a detour sign. The Chicago Street bridge was my saber-toothed tiger. It loomed before me like an open jawed dragon in a ring of orange cones. I had options. I could retreat the ½ mile to my C.T.A. stop, I could venture south into uncharted territory or I could follow the vehicular detour to the north.

After a moment I chose north… My odyssey continued… I am firmly of the opinion that where you go, move with purpose. I may be lost; I might have unwittingly stepped in the middle of a battle between 6-shooter toting, sharpshooting cowboys; sidewalks may diminish to single-track rutted rivulets of mud. None of that matters, I just keep moving as if I had planned it this way and I’m certain I will emerge unscathed. When I encountered mud puddles that needed a ferry crossing (or a row boat at the very least) I fantasized about a chivalrous passerby cast down an XXXXXXL raincoat with floatation for me to step upon. My suitcase has accompanied me to six continents (Antarctica eludes) and I didn’t relish the thought of losing it in a deep water channel of thawing muck. Trudging on, I hefted my bag and made my way. It wasn’t all that bad. Until (yes, it’s another until) the block ahead was filled with emergency vehicles and flashing lights. A handsome unsympathetic fire suit clad man pointed me on yet another circuitous detour delaying me further, but hey, at least I was getting my exercise.

Eventually I made it too my destination unscathed. When I relay my route it was received with alarmed raised eyebrows. “You walked there?!?”

My return was equally inauspicious. March had roared in like a lion and I slogged through heavily snow to the closer C.T.A. stop. Shivering, I waited for the train with snow clinging to my bag and pant legs to the extent that I was beginning take on abominable snowman attributes. On the train I distracted myself as I was melting into a soggy mess with The Captain and Tennille. Love, love with keep us together… good stuff!

At the airport, TSA was suspicious of my bag. This is not unusual, that umbrella I stow in the outside pocket might be an automatic weapon, or poisonous dart launcher or, in a much less James Bond world, might just be an umbrella. As I slipped back into my shoes I pointed out the umbrella to the rubber glove clad agent. No, she shook her head, and proceeded to unzip the bag. Aha! I was carrying a board game: Foodie Fight - Definitely a suspicious object. They x-rayed the game separately and wiped it down for explosives so now we all can feel safer. If only she could offer an explanation for that Blackalicious Diet Coke commercial question that stumped me. The above reference to my iPod playlist could offer some insight on my inability to answer that question. Cleared of any wrong-doing this time, I went on to catch my flight home where my non-saber-toothed kitty awaits.