The "Joy" of Getting There

We're packing light: each member of the family is traveling with an Ikea-style carry-on.  We have rented apartments in the most of the place we'll visit this summer which allows us to do laundry and pack light.

Breathe.  Relax.  Release tension.  Shoulders feel lighter. We are now on the plane, beyond the stress of the TSA and everything else associated with airports. Seriously, though I love to travel, I’d almost rather have a colonoscopy than park the car and navigate security in a squeeze (do we really have to get just shot of naked to board a plane?).  That, coupled with the fact that we had to prepare the house for a kitchen remodel while we’re gone, and making sure that my programmers had enough direction and tasks for the next eight weeks while I traipse across Europe, made the moment of shoving (literally) a plethora of carry-ons into the overhead compartment and slinking down into my seat particularly sweet.

The morning started early at 4:00 a.m.  Lisa left two and half hours earlier than the rest of us (the result of only being able to book six people at once when you have seven people in your family). Consequently, we decided to spend the night at the Courtyard close to the Airport. That would allow me to drive Lisa to the airport, make sure she got to the right place, and then head back to get the kids.  Making that journey to and from Orem just wasn’t worth it.

Once I made sure Lisa was in the secure hands of the TSA, I drove into Salt Lake to find a Walmart in search of Benadryl—the over-the-counter allergy medicine that we’re used to drug Abby, our three year old, so that she’ll sleep on the flight to Rome. I know, we’re terrible parents.  And it gets worse: I am giving the three oldest kids and Lisa the sleep-aid, Ambien—this from a family that feels dirty about taking the occasional ibuprofen.  We’re not big on medication in our family, but this appears to be the exception.  Two years ago, on the advise of a doctor friend of mine, we took a combination of Ambien and a drug called Provigil to overcome jetlag on a 9 day trip to France.  Lisa, who, prior to that trip, had tried but never succeeded to sleep on a plane, was out cold just 30 minutes after taking her first half-an-Ambien.  The same occurred for my two oldest children, Samantha and Jeffrey.  An hour before we landed, the four of us consumed some portion of the drug Provigil, which has the opposite effect of Ambien in that it keeps you perky and alert for about 12 hours (more or less depending on the dosage).  By the time bedtime rolled around in Paris, we were ready after a day of vigorous, non-drowsy sightseeing.  By the next morning, we were fully adjusted to Paris time, and we didn’t waste a minute of time recovering. The key to any quick and successful adjustment to an 8-hour time difference is to NOT nap when you land in Europe but to get right in tourist mode until at least 9 p.m. on the day you land.  The Ambien-Provigil combination makes that process so much easier.

In the security line at the TSA: even Abby is annoyed.

Back to Walmart.  Why did I think they were open 24-hours?  Apparently the Walmart off 13^th south in Salt Lake didn’t get the memo on that.  Closing between midnight and 6 am is so 1999. Anyway, at 5:15 a.m., I almost walked through the glass, auto-sliding doors of Walmat that didn’t open as I expected.  I asked Siri if she could point me to a grocery store that is open 24-hours.  Unfortunately, Siri reminded me that she doesn’t do store hours.  I then asked her to show me all of the Rite-Aids in the area. She promptly came up with at least 15 of them, eight of which I called, only to learn that none of them opened till 8 am.  Suddenly, I thought I had been magically transported to France (must have been a good dose of Ambien, or perhaps Scottie had beamed us without us knowing). Why is nothing open at 5:15 am (funny how we start to expect such ridiculousness)?  With Siri and Rite-Aid having failed me, I did what we did prior to Smart phones:  I drove aimlessly in the dark, looking for Benadryl.  7-11 was my first stop.  While I filled up my car, I went inside to look for Benadryl.  While they had 38 different versions of “5-Hour Energy" and other copy-cat brands (by the way, the margins on those $3 1-ounce bottles of pure caffeine must be huge), they apparently had nothing with which to drug a three-year old. The only benefit of the 7-11 run was that I got to fill up a car for some guy, who had to get to Provo for work in 45 minutes, but whose debit card got declined at the pump.

I left 7-11, drove past Spring Mobile ballpark, toward State Street.   As I turned northbound on State, I got pulled over by a policeman. Seriously?  I never get pulled over. I’ve had one ticket in the last 22 years.  Ok, I guess that’s not true.  I’ve gotten one speeding ticket, and two tickets for talking on my cell phone while driving in Hawaii and California. 

“Hello, Sir, my name is officer so and so,” the policeman, who couldn’t have been a day over 25,  began.  “I pulled you over because your taillight is out.”  My taillight?  Man, that must be a boring patrol. 

“Can I see your license, proof of insurance, and registration?”

I pulled the travel pouch that was hanging from my neck, tucked into my shirt (I’m already in Europe mode), and handed him my license.  “Uh, I hope I can find my insurance and registration.  This is, after all, this car that my wife and kids drive.”  I then rummaged through the glove box that looks and feels like the proverbial wicker basket in your kitchen—you know, the one that houses of pile of paper from the last 27 years.  After looking at four outdated insurance cards stillin the glovebox, I found and then handed the officer the current version. My next task was to find the registration.  “Here it is,” I say after locating something.  “Uh, never mind, that was last year’s registration.  Hmmm, not sure where that is,”  as I furiously flip through reams of paper.  It’s as if our glovebox is like thattent in one of the Harry Potter books that is about 10 x  10 on the outside but is magically the size of the Taj Majal on the inside.  How that much stuff--paper, manuals, random fuses, multi[le pressure-gauges, and everything else you can imagine--can fit in the glove box is one of great mysteries of the universe.

“Yeah, I’m not sure I have that registration,” I tell the officer, expecting the worse, “but if you look on the license plate, there’s a big red sticker with a 13 on it. That good enough?”

“Yes, I looked up your plate before I got out of my car. I can see the car is registered,” he said.  I wanted to ask the obvious follow-up question—if you already looked it up on your iPad, then why on earth do you need me to find the paper copy for you?—but I held my tongue.  For those of you that are familiar with the “cutting-off-the-ends-of-the-ham” story I’ve been known to tell a few times (if you’re not, I’ll be happy to share it with you some time J), I would definitely classify the need to show proof of registration to the police officer, who has already verified that my car is registered, as a “ham” issue.  He told me to keep looking for it as he went back to his car and did whatever they do when they take your insurance and license back to their car.  I’m sure the conversation between the two officers in the car went something like this:

Drug dealer?

No.

Escaped convict?

No. 

Serial Killer?

No.

Oustanding parking tickets? 

Only in California. 

Should we extradite him?

 Says here he never paid his “I owe you” from the Dumbarton Bridge in Palo Alto. Guess this guy doesn’t carry cash with him, and toll booths don’t take credit.

Systems says this guy is a mortgage banker?  Should we take him for that alone?  Didn’t he cause the financial crisis of 2008?

Republican?

I don’t know.  He’s from Utah.

Probably is.  Well, if he is then the IRS has already investigated him, so if he’s still on street, he must be clean.

By the time the officer made it back to my car, I had located this year’s registration, and I handed it to him. He pretended to look at it, and then, to my relief, said, “I’m not going to issue you a citation this time, but get that light fixed.”  I expressed my gratitude, and drove off, reminding myself to not talk on my cell phone.

The cool thing about these Ikea carry-ons is the zip on back-pack: makes for easy carrying of extra stuff, especially when you have to carry your little sister's backpack, as Daphne displays here.

By this time it was 5:45 AM. Walmart would be open in 15 minutes.  I drove back to their parking lot, and sent an email while I waiting for the doors to open.  By 5:50 there was a line at the  door (and I thought that only happened on black Friday).

What should have taken 3.5 minutes took about 12.  For one, my brain was only half-functioning after just a 3.5 hours of sleep (that makes about 20 hours in the last four to five days), and for another, I waited in the check-out line for a least 7 minutes at 6:15 am. While I was in the check-out line, I called my kids to wake them, and told them they have 15 minutes to get themselves and Abby ready.

15 minutes later I arrived at the hotel to find suitcases still open on the floor, and Abby still in her PJs. Not much had apparently happened since my call.  As I was scurrying to get everyone ready, Samantha came to me and said, “Dad, I left my temple recommend and debit card in Tanner’s car. He’s on the freeway, and doesn’t know how to get back here.”

Tanner is what Sam refers to as her “friend” (translation: boyfriend).  He leaves on an LDS mission in two weeks, and last night he and Sam had one grand finale of a date before they separated for two years (a bike ride, picnic, a visit to an LDS temple, and a movie—I guess they were trying to cram two years worth of stuff into one night).  The plan was for Tanner to drive Sam to Salt Lake at the end of their date, and drop her off at midnight at our hotel.  At 11:30 p.m. I called them in a panic, “Have you guys left Orem yet?  Emma left her retainer at home—she can’t go eight weeks without it, or I’m going to pay for braces again. Can you grab it?”  To do so, they had to back track 30 minutes to pick up Emma’s retainer (as well as a retainer for Jeffrey, who apparently left his at home too, but wasn’t willing to admit it until he learned that Sam was going home to get Emma’s).  That diversion cost them an hour, and so I offered to have Tanner stay the night with us at the hotel, so he didn’t have to drive home so late. 

By the time I get back from Walmart, Tanner had left and was heading south on I-215 when Sam mistakenly thought that her debit card and temple recommend where in Tanner’s wallet in his car.  As it turned out, Tanner had actually left his wallet at the hotel. 

At that point, we had about 1 hour and 15 minutes before departure, and we had to find some way to meet up with Tanner, who wasn’t confident in his ability to find his way back to the airport or hotel.  We hustled to the car, loaded up our bags, and sped to the airport, trying to not brake en route less Officer “State Street” was looming in the background, ready to cite me for not have my taillight fixed yet. We hoped that Tanner could find his way to the airport.

As we pulled into the airport, I asked, “Did we get the retainers?”  Silence.  Sometimes silence in a car full of children is a good thing.  Now wasn’t one of those times.  “Sam, did you get the retainers?” I asked again.  After the first, “Uh” I knew were in trouble.   Yes, we had left the retainers back at the hotel—we hoped. We now had an hour before flight time and we had several things to find before we could step foot in the airport:  Tanner and a set of retainers. 

For reasons that aren’t clear to me (it’s probably another “ham” thing) the powers-that-be recommend that one arrive at the airport two hours before an international flight. We were now one hour before flight time and we weren’t even close to setting foot in the airport.

High blood pressure, meet Jeff Reeves.  Jeff, blood pressure.  I wasn’t nice.  I did my fatherly “duty” of criticizing under the guise name of “correcting”: “Guys, I called you an hour ago, and told you to get ready.  When I got back to the hotel, it looked as if you had lived there for three weeks (exaggeration, meet Jeff Reeves).  We were already late, and now we have to drive back to the hotel and hopefully  find these retainers.  We just might miss our flight!”  More silence while Dad continued to “correct” in other ways.

Fortunately, we hadn’t ever formally checked out and still had access and keys to our rooms.  Sam found the retainers in a plastic bag on the floor of one of our rooms.  When she returned to the car, I made Jeffrey and Emma stick those retainers in their mouths!

We were able to connect with Tanner, check in, and get through a surprisingly quick security line in enough time to grab a breakfast burrito at the snack bar next to gate where we boarded (about three minutes before the gate closed).

So, now I sit here at 30,000 feet, relieved that policemen, Walmart, lost retainters and the TSA are behind me.  Looking forward to a trip that we have planned for about six years:  eight weeks in Europe with my family. If it’s half as fun as the planning has been then it will be a success. The next time I blog it will be from Rome.  I’ll lay out our eight week itinerary for you then.