The southern strategy

I don't have one, and that is perhaps part of my problem. I didn't strategize and I ended up on a dark highway in the middle of Alabama in a car with a seat I couldn't adjust. It was midnight, I was so very tired, and I was driving with my arms and legs stretched out in front of me to reach the wheel and the pedals, listening first to that awful Delilah and then (lawd have mercy) to the Christmas music station. I was too exhausted to try to figure out the radio controls. How did I get into this situation?

I didn't realize that public transit in St. Louis is even worse than I thought. I had my good friend tinyK drop me off at the MetroLink station in Maplewood, and had to wait a bit for a train. No big deal. I took that train to the transfer point at the Forest Park station, where I had to wait 15 minutes for a train. In what other city do the light rail trains run every 20 minutes? What is the point? Why invest millions in the infrastructure if it's not going to be much faster than the bus? Because it's a showpiece. And that showpiece made me miss my flight.

Now, I have to absorb some of the blame. I only allowed one hour to get to the airport (silly me) and then I got on the wrong train at the Forest Park station, sending myself back south instead of north, because the effing trains don't announce themselves. I was already feeling late and nervous, so I hopped on the first westbound train. Then I heard the conductor announce the upcoming station. Panic. Oh god. And the next westbound train, once I made my way back to the transfer point, didn't come for another agonizing 15 minutes. Anger.

Yeah, so. I missed my flight. I got into the airport just in time, as I was breathlessly trying to explain to my fellow line-mates that I needed, so badly needed, to cut in line to get to the ticket counter, to hear my name called as the Southwest gate paged me.

Me, to ticket agent: "That's me, ha ha."
Ticket agent: "..."

I wasn't able to make the next flight on standby, so I had to take another, which routed me through Houston. My little one-hour direct flight was now a seven-hour airport extravaganza. Ah well, I thought. I'll muscle through, big-girl style. I'll eat Chinese food and read my book. I'll nap on the plane.

I finally got to Birmingham at 10:35 pm. It was dark, I was tired. I went to the baggage claim area and waited with all the other wan passengers for my bag. My gray Samsonite roller bag. Have you seen it? No?

Jesus Christ.

My bag was in Baltimore. I had nothing. No underwear, no socks, no contact lens solution, no nothing. I filed a claim.

I made my way down, around, and through the Houston airport to the Budget booth in the parking garage to rent my car, thinking it would be a fast process since I had made an online reservation. No. My god, no. I will spare you the details, but suffice it to say that I finally got the damn keys and dragged myself to the car, a dark gray Chevy Impala.

I got in and nothing (NOTHING!) was where I expected it to be. I couldn't figure out how to turn on the radio, and I couldn't find the dome light to help myself find the power button. And I couldn't move the seat forward. I was too far away from the steering wheel and I had an hour-and-a-half drive to Montgomery ahead of me. At midnight. No car manual in the glove box. I felt my throat get tight. I took some deep breaths.

So I tilted the steering wheel down low and pitched my seat forward, making for a very awkward angle but at least I could comfortably reach the wheel. I can do this. I can do this. It's only just over an hour's drive.

I finally figured out how to turn on the radio, but the BBC on NPR was absolutely not what I needed at that hour after that day. I don't know commercial radio in Birmingham (or anywhere, really) and I didn't want to run off the road trying to find something. So I used the presets the last putz had programmed and settled on Delilah. I hate her. But it was fun to yell at her, to yell at anyone.

Her show ended and then it was Christmas music. Nothing but Christmas music. Most nights, this would send me over the edge. But last night, in the dark on the empty highway in the middle of rural Alabama at one in the morning, struggling against a full bladder, it was just nice to be able to sing along.

Today was much better. I got up and went right to Target, bought a couple pairs of leggings and cheap t-shirts, socks and underwear, toiletries. Came back to the hotel, showered, and went to work researching at the archive at Alabama State. It was a productive day.

And it ended with this:

I found Martin's Restaurant on Yelp and it was everything I wanted: down home, traditional Southern cooking in an old-school atmosphere. Comfort food. You know, for comfort.