The Far-Too-Frequent Flyers: Or, Things to Do in Denver When You're Half Dead

When you travel 60 hours with your Crabtot from one country to another, you think of all the refugess in the world...moms carrying children from North to South Korea, children hiding on boats from Cuba, families walking from Zimbabwe to South Africa...and you think to yourself: MY STORY IS WORSE.

Because you are a narcissist. And Crabmommy be your name.

Okay, so my story is not worse. But it is bad. I challenge you not to think it is one of the baddest tot-in-transit stories you have ever read. It is, in fact, so bad, that I have decided to blog about it twice. One version appears here. And the other version appears here. And yes the posts are long. Because it was a long, long trek home from South Africa to the US and many, many things went madly, badly wrong. And if you read what I have to say, you will see how ghastly and ruinous this trek was for the Crabmommy. And even the reading experience itself will likely be ghastly and ruinous. Which is why I have put incentives in, encouraging you to read on. Finish my tale, leave me your response and two lucky readers will receive:

a) a gently used red travel pillow
or b) an egg of Silly Putty. Because that stuff is the best child-amusement object you could possibly pack into your carry-on.

As I sit here n my purple robe, still recovering from the ordeal weeks after it has happened (it has taken me this long to even think about re-experiencing this hellacious trip online), I ask you to refill your cup, steel yourself, and relive my journey with me. Will it be hard going? Oh yes indeedy it will. But remember: there's a travel pillow in it for you! And an egg of Silly Putty with your name on it!

Saturday: After a three hour trip to Johannesburg and a 2 hour wait, Crabtot and I take a 19-hour flight to DC. But no, this is not the hell whereof of I speak. This is a piece of cake. This is easy peasy putty putts. Crabtot and I spend hours with Silly Putty. We bead our pants off. We color with invisible ink. We paint with water onto magic paper books that turn pink and blue and orange. We play with remote controls. And while Crabtot did, loudly, in the silent darkness of the cabin ask me how babies got into stomachs, the leg of the journey I most dreaded went without a hitch.

Sunday: Arrive in DC. Problems begin. Where is my door-checked stroller? "Ma'am, just wait here" (how is it Americans pronounce Ma'am like a foul four-letter word instead of a polite form of address?). Ma'am waits. 30, 40minutes pass and no stroller. I am about to miss my connection to Denver so I leave, Crabtot arcing in my arms. Luckily, an angel from customs finds me and brings me my stroller. We make the flight with minutes to spare.

Denver: I don't mean to insult my Denver readers, but what is that joke of a new airport? Those white cones that shoot up into the sky and look like a series of futuristic bras belonging to Madonna. But more important, where are the airport hotels? Oh, that would be a good half hour away by bus. But why do I need a hotel? The answer starts with what should have been the final leg, from Denver to Crabtown. Crabtot and I are flying solo and Crabhubby will be meeting us, a fact that is sending Crabtot into apoplectic delight as we approach the Crab valley. This is the promised reward for being such a good travlet—this and a bag of jellybeans.

Except that touchdown doesn't happen. What should be a 1-hour flight turns into a 5-hour flight that never makes its destination. Weather diverts our plane through uber-macro-turbulence (GAH! REVOLTING!) to a small Mormony town in Idaho where we proceed to sit on the airport tarmac and wait out some arctic winds. We ascend once more into turbulence, attempt Crabtown touchdown one more time, and are told that we must return to Denver.

Denver again: this is hour 48. I have had 4 hours of sleep. I beg the flight crew to help me as I foresee an airport full of disgruntled passengers all waiting to rebook tickets in what now has become clear is the blizzard ot the season. Crabtot begins a most justifiable meltdown. And I am told that, while there is a half-mile long long of angry people awaiting ticketing agents, no one will advance me to the front of the line.

Denver, still: I wait in the line. For 5 minutes. Crabtot is hungry and delirious with exhaustion. I ask a ticketing agent if she could let me in the line on account of the 48 hours for Crabtot, and the 4 hours of sleep for Crabmommy. No pity. This Denverian trollop tells me if I want to jump the line I must ask people personally. So I do. A compassionate gentleman lets me in the line. Another begins to shout: "If I have a small kid can I also jump the line?" I try to explain the length of the trip and the circumstances attending. He tells me he doesn't give a rat's bum. And then the Crabmommy starts to snuffle. Women swarm around me. Mothers bearing snacks. "That little thing called a penis, it just gets in the way of compassion sometimes," says a woman fiercely.

I'm sorry, readers At this point I find it too taxing to complete my story. And since I did complete it over at Cookie magazine, might I redirect you—in the spirit of diversion (a theme neatly encapsulated by the preceding paragraph) —to another zone?

If you can't bear to finish the story (who can blame you? the narrative arc is so tedious—no actual movement from a to b, in fact nothing but circuitous re-routings back to dang Denver) then I can't blame you. "Denver Airport Again" does not fascinating reading make, especially when you and your offspring are half-dead and hence entirely unable to partake of the Denverian delights that I am quite certain await in the city proper. Okay, so maybe I am not certain. Anyhoo. Skipping ahead, yes, we made it out of there. We did manage to escape, barely, from the Madonna Bra Airport the following day, but only after much tribulation.

And we never made it to Crabtown. But we did make it to Utah. Where we took refuge from a great big wanker of a blizzard at my mother-in-law's. Many days passed before Crabhubby could drive the 5 hours from Crabtown and fetch us. But drive down he eventually did. And he managed to do this only *just* before I almost converted to Mormonism.

As many of you know, I like to make fun of Mormons. But one thing the people of the Angel Moroni know how to do is run a good airport. Want your plane to land in hardcore snow? Go to Salt Lake City. Do not go to Denver. I might add that on this my very last flight into Salt Lake City, I was so tired and delirious and excited to imagine getting out of planes after 60 hours of travel, that I actually made friends some Mormon fellow passengers. One, an ob-gyn gave me a spiel about the US having a declining population. And briefly, I thought, in my half-crazed state that maybe I should listen to this highly pleasant and as always, always good-looking disciple of Joseph Smith and have another child to serve my adopted country.

And then, dear God, I thought about traveling with two of them. And while the tabernacle of Nephi might say unto ye, come forth and multiply and polygamize, and while landing in Utah seemed suddenly the finest thing that had ever happened to me, I resisted the call of the mighty Mo-mo religion.

It was close. But I escaped, my atheism and one-child-only religions intact. Ish.