The long way home

¶ When going to the District of Columbia, to travel through any airport except Reagan National (tho' I shudder at the name) is foolhardy, and even masochistic.

That was the principal lesson of my trip to the IHS Research Colloquium this weekend. Not that I didn't learn any other fine lessons; quite the contrary, the weekend was entertaining and productive. But the pedagogy of itinerancy was the most instructive.

I am convinced that, because of my persistent flirtation with classical liberalism (not yet consummated, but heated nonetheless) the Old Socialist Gods brought their vengeance upon me. I planned my trip on a leisurely schedule, with no special concern for the place of arrival and departure. It's all in the same city, I naïvely assumed. I would arrive at National on Friday with three hours to spare, and leave from Dulles on Sunday five hours after the end of the colloquium. With so much leeway, I'd get a peek at the new National Museum of the American Indian, glance at a few paintings in the National Portrait Gallery, and after a short ride out to the airport, I'd make it home in time for supper.

I saw the sights, but alas, the following ride was not short. The supper was missed, as were the next day's breakfast and lunch. But I get ahead of myself...

more...

The trip out to D.C. was largely uneventful, with the exception of the taxicab driver from Hyde Park to O'Hare who insisted on telling me every detail of his family's financial disputes—something to do with him loaning his brother money and not getting it back in time to pay his lease, and his family not showing him proper respect even though he is a prince in his country. I just laid back and nodded.

I arrived at O'Hare less than an hour before departure. No matter, since I had no luggage to check. I walked up to the dozen self-service ticketing machines that line the terminal, punched in the relevant numbers, received my boarding pass and walked onto the plane. No lines, no hassles, no delays, even at the security line. I fell asleep as the plane took off, as I always do, and woke up as we landed. On the runway, out of the airplane window, rose the Washington Monument. Through the trees I saw the Capitol, the Jefferson Memorial, all within an arm's reach, just across the Potomac. Even for one who thinks himself a foreigner in this country, it was a solemn sight.

Solemnity, however, was sorely lacking on the way back to Chicago. The fault, I admit, was largely mine. I had been fooled by the comforts of the capital, the cleanliness of the subway, the leisurely walks up and down the Mall. It was all so close, so neat, so orderly. I knew that Dulles was a bit further away than National, but how far can anything be in Washington anyway? I'd get to the hotel by five thirty and make the flight at seven. Alas, Dulles is very, very far away, and once you get there, your trip is just beginning.

There was little traffic on the road to the airport; indeed, there was little of anything besides green rolling hills and no signs of habitation on either side of the highway. Then, abruptly, the concrete monolith that is the Dulles terminal, best described as an enormous green and gray intercontinental bus stop. Once inside, four rachitic ticketing machines hide beside the AmericanAirlines ticketing counter. Not that they did me any good. Although I was there before the flight had even started boarding, that was too late for the folks at Dulles, who have found it convenient to design an airport around an internal rail system that takes three quarters of an hour to transport passengers from the ticketing counter to the gate. So I missed my flight.

The next available plane out of Washington left the next morning. Already short on finances, frustrated, and embarrassed, I called a friend who—bless his heart—lent me his sofa for the night. The next morning I set off to Dulles airport once again, this time by rail and bus (taxi fares were already beyond the scope of the expense account). An hour later I was back in front of dreaded counter, but I could not see it. Why? Because the waiting room was crowded by three intercrossing lines of passengers, one for first-class, another for electronic tickets, a third for old-fashioned paper slips. All three lined crossed at the same spot and it was impossible to tell them apart. And over the din of voices I kept hearing the rumor that a flight—which flight?—had been cancelled. Some said it was the non-stop to Los Angeles, others the one to Dallas, and Chicago? Well, they were all correct: L.A., Dallas, Chicago, all grounded, all several hundred people waiting to get on with their lives far, far from the intercontinental gray-green bus-stop in the D.C. suburbs.

And I was here the night before, mind you.

After an hour or two of waiting a few frantic, yet fruitless, phone calls to American Airlines, I intercepted the attendant as she walked past the crowd and begged her to find me a flight home. I didn't even lie (although my Kantian heart is frail in these situations) when I told her that I needed to be in Chicago by three for a medical appointment. She tapped some keys and found me a flight leaving at two o'clock from—dramatic silence—Washington National Airport. This time, however, the taxicab was on the airline's tab, and the ride down was marked by pleasant conversation with my driver on Pakistani family customs—out of respect, younger siblings don't call their elders by their name—and South-Asian history—it was Lord Mountbatten's fault, I gathered.

Reagan National was a stark contrast to its northern cousin. Crisp and clean, one only had to go down a flight of stairs to reach the gate, and along the way could browse aisles at Borders or the wares at the Smithsonian store. Overall, it looks much like Chicago's Midway Airport, the smaller, but better behaved partner to lumbering O'Hare; as I recall, it even has the same color scheme.

As pleasant as the trip was, my troubles were not over. The plane, only slightly delayed when we left the gate, was left in the runway for an hour because it missed its turn to take off. Once back in Chicago, I let my haste overcome my good sense and dashed for a cab, thinking that it would get me downtown faster. Soon enough, we were in the midst of rush hour. Desperate, I told the driver to drop me off at the next El station (that's "subway" for New Yorkers). He was not pleased.

By then it was late. I met M. downtown, walked to the bus, and was happy to be finally home.