Wake up, my love, it’s time to get ready to go home. I know, I know, there are at least three botanic gardens we haven’t been to, but the humans need to get back to Texas and back to work so that they can afford to take us somewhere nice next year.
Blast it! I had another very good prank lined up, but it has fallen through. The humans, knowing now that the Air Train involves an inordinate amount of luggage hauling and walking, were easily persuaded that it was a good idea to use one of their last Pass Package options to summon a shuttle to the airport. The female asked the inn’s concierge how to schedule this. The concierge, curse her, told the female that such shuttles make stops all over the city and can take HOURS to reach the airport and that they would be better served summoning a taxi.
Which they have done. (That is eight methods of transportation on this trip!) I am having to console myself with the fact that the human female, through a combination of stop-and-go traffic and road fumes, is contemplating ending this sojourn by puking here in the back seat. Um, Sigyn, let’s you and I go sit up front with the driver.
Now we’re at the airport. Very, very early. Which is good, because I’ve had a little fun with the gate assignments. Once the human female finally succeeded last night in printing out the boarding passes (a task made insufferable by the inn’s woefully inadequate wifi), the mortals were fairly certain that they were leaving from a C gate. However, the helpful TSA man scribbled B-something on his pass.
They’re hoping it’s C, because it looks like one reaches the B shuttle via Pet Poop Lane.
They’ve checked the departures board. There is good news and bad news.
The good news? It’s C for sure. And here we are!
The bad news? According to the text the female has just received…
We’re leaving an hour late.
There is definitely time for some lunch then. What to eat? What to eat?
The human female has quickly chosen a sandwich and some fizzy water.
The sandwich is good, she says, but the cherry water tastes like “melted cough drop.”
The human male has gone to a little shop that will custom make you a sandwich and is patiently waiting.
“Oh, sorry. Did you order something, sir? I’ll get right on that.” Eh he he he! That cook will be getting a big tip from me.
We took off at 67 degrees F and foggy. We have arrived to find 99 degrees and blazing sun. Now, how do we get to the long-term parking lot?
And how much will that bill be?