Cruise Chronicles: Alaska Edition - Lost Luggage

I lost luggage for the first time in my life in Seattle.

Having arrived almost an hour and a half late to Seattle and already dealing with the several voice mails left by my town car driver (oh yes, we ride in style) that were recorded in a manner that was either anxious or annoyed--I had not met the guy, so I couldn't tell the difference--we learned that our luggage had not made the trip with us. Well, not so much as learned as came to the conclusion after watching the carousel in hopeful anticipation for twenty minutes solid as it interminably orbited in a lazy elliptical.

Waiting for baggage is like waiting to be picked for kickball in PE. You know you won't be first, but you hope to God you're not last. Sadly, our luggage never appeared. Like the odd kid leftover who got to be umpire, which in kickball is as useful as the life vest under your airplane seat.

This baggage carousel was the first one I have ever seen with a chute from an upper level. I've dreamt about seeing one (and riding one) ever since I watched the Chipmunks' balloon adventure. You know what I'm talking about. Near the end while they were running from Claude and went down that baggage chute like a slide on a playground.

The Southwest baggage claim lady in Seattle was abnormally chipper for what I guess must be a pretty crappy job. She took down our claim information and reassured us that it was actually better that both our luggage was missing. It was more likely to turn up. This made us feel a little better, as I had absolutely no change of clothes, much to Leslie's enjoyment, though her single change of clothes would fare no better on a seven-day cruise. Never before in my travels had luggage been so vital.

Perky Southwest Baggage Lady took down our hotel information, marveling at the fact that I could recite the address of the Mediterranean Inn from memory. If she knew what kind of planning went into this trip she would have been less impressed. But as it was, she did not yet know (but she probably suspected--everyone does) that I was an OCD freak, and her amazement made me feel better. An noteworthy achievement, considering my current deficit of clean underwear and toothpaste.

But Perky Southwest Baggage Lady promised our luggage would arrive by the next morning, so we left to find our anxious/annoyed town car driver. After one false start (I jumped into the back of the wrong town car), we found our guy and made the forty-five minute trip to the hotel in a little less than half an hour. The driver obviously knew a route or speed limit exception of which Google is unaware. Useful travel tip: When traveling in groups of 2-4, take a town car from the airport. It is the same price as a cab, and normally less than those airport shuttles, which make ten stops and often smell of a cocktail of bodily effluents.

True to Perky's word, our luggage arrived promptly at 2:00 am. The front desk clerk, who probably was having a slow night, this being the hipster section of Seattle, where everyone pretended to be bohemian but turned in by 10 pm so they could wake up early, grab their Starbucks and head to their mid-level job at a financial firm in downtown, happily woke me up. After he chatted briefly about something Seattle-related, he released my luggage to me (dutifully checking my name, as if someone else would be looking for luggage at that hour). Satisfied that the luggage survived its ordeal in Las Vegas, I went back to bed and dreamt of luggage chutes.

Cruise Chronicles: Alaska Edition - Las Vegas Airport

As the saying goes, "Whatever happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas." The fine folks at Las Vegas International Airport, true to their motto, make damned well sure nothing ever leaves Las Vegas, at least not by air.

Seasoned air traveler that I am, I consider myself very tolerant of airports. I don't mind walking to gates, I actually enjoy moving sidewalks and underground trams, and I am adept at airport dining. For instance, I love Atlanta's airport. For the amount of people going through that city, that airport works exceedingly well.

Las Vegas is no Atlanta. The population in the terminal consisted equally of downtrodden, newly poor people, the overexcited elderly, and ladies of the evening, or at least women who dressed like it. And not the "Pretty Woman" type ladies of the evening. The ones that are walking Petri dishes of venereal disease that you would much rather prefer were in the next county rather than brushing up against your exposed elbow.

And there were a lot of people. Not only was every seat taken, but every bit of wall space that offered a modicum of comfort was claimed. People were sitting on the ground leaning against trash cans. Other people, like Leslie and I, who preferred not to sit by the trash can where the non-Pretty Woman prostitutes just spit out her hepatitis gum, kept walking around the terminal. We were like a school of fish in a much-too-small aquarium. Just doing laps to keep from suffocating.

We eventually found a small "bar" in the corner of the terminal that didn't allow children. This eliminated most of the downtrodden people, who, in addition to being newly poor, were blessed with many, many children. Because nothing says family vacation like Vegas. At the bar, we had one beer, one bloody Mary, and two shrink-wrapped sandwiches. $44. It turned out to be the most expensive meal of our vacation. And it wasn't just the bar. The Subway around the corner was charging $1/inch.

After a delay of an hour and a half and a gate change that would cause our luggage to miss the flight, we left the Las Vegas airport, and we never plan on returning.

Cruise Chronicles: Alaska Edition - Kids on a Plane

On the previous cruises we've taken we have enjoyed the luxury of sailing from a port close to our home. This is obviously the most optimal, as you drop a surprising amount of cash on transportation costs trying to get to a cruise ship elsewhere. Unfortunately, there are no Norfolk-to-Alaska cruises, so we reluctantly had to fly this time.

I've been spoiled over the past couple years by government travel. Before our cruise I only flew on Mondays and Fridays when the planes are full of business travelers. Planes full of people who knew exactly how to get through security, who lived by carry-on limitations, and were, most importantly, quiet companions.

We flew to Seattle on a Wednesday aboard Southwest, or, as I've come to know it, the Every Man's Airline. There are no class distinctions in Southwest, are there? Seating is first-come, first-served. You don't get more American than that. Of the 137 seats available, at least 80 were filled with 60 pounds of raw human energy in small packages. These kids were crazy, and their parents, obviously beaten down by years of juvenile oppression, bore little resistance. Now, we are by no means anti-children. We are just anti-bad parents. For four hours and forty-five minutes, we suffered through this maelstrom of kicked seats, inane non-inside voice screams, and marathon aisle-running. Our favorite moment, by far, was sitting at the Las Vegas airport gate waiting to deplane when the girl in front of us took great interest in the baggage handlers.

Girl: Is that our green suitcase?
Mom: Let me see. No.
Girl: Is that our green suitcase?
Mom: Is it? No.
Girl: Is that our green suitcase?
Mom: Maybe...no.
Girl: Is that our green suitcase?
Mom: <silent>
Girl: Is that our green suitcase?
Mom: <still distracted>
Girl: Is that our green suitcase?
Mom: Wait, let me look. No.
Girl: Oh.
Girl: Is that our green suitcase?
Mom: No.

You get the idea.