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Well, I’m back in Savannah after some rather lame travel malfunctions that I could blame on the architects of the Washington Dulles Airport, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say it was all my fault.

I was way too cocky about my airport travel skillz.

A friend and I were on the same flight leaving Portland– except his final destination was the decidedly cooler than Savannah, Budapest, Hungary.  AWESOME, I said, just my luck.

I checked my very heavy non-personal item carry-on baggage at the gate and thought, SCORE I won’t have to haul all my heavy shoes around.

Then, I discovered I was sitting in economy plus­, free of charge, GREAT, I thought, my life is awesome.

Four and a half hours later we landed in Washington Dulles and decided to get lunch during our overlapping layovers. After riding in a convoy type vehicle that was a hybrid between an alien spaceship docking device and what they carted prisoners off to their deaths in during WWII and then a train to the right terminal because we were apparently on the wrong death-mobile, we were eating Five Guys at my gate.

The odd shuttle-bus-tram-death-mobile-alien-spacecraft we rode in.

And by my gate, I mean the gate my flight was sharing with six other flights, across from another gate with an additional six flights.  (This is where my beef with the architect comes in.)  Every person in a 50-foot radius speaking on the intercom echoed loudly everywhere–it was hard to decipher anything.

I heard the call for boarding of Savannah once, and assumed (wrongly) that it was first class, platinum, gold, silver and other precious metal carrying passengers only.

And that was it. I sat there as Savannah boarded and took off, catching up with my friend and enjoying every minute until I realized my flight was closed and couldn’t fly out until tomorrow morning.

I hugged my friend goodbye and assured him it was not his fault.  (Really, Bogdan, it was not your fault.)

Then here is the really embarrassing part. I went to the bathroom and cried.  And I’m not the kind of person who can hide when they are crying.  My eyes turn bright red and puffy, my voice quivers.

No really, this is what I look like when I cry (add that to your reasons not to make me cry). Plus traveling makes me extra disheveled.

I wasn’t crying because I missed my flight and it was my fault entirely but because really the only good part about leaving Oregon is seeing all the awesome people I’ve met in Savannah.  So without the immediate gratification of seeing them, I was pretty defeated.

My parents kept calling to suggest things to do (go to a hotel, ask to be re-routed through Chicago, etc. etc.) but every time they tried to comfort me I would cry more because there I was, 20-years-old and totally immobile because of incredible homesickness.

Then there was that total derailment where once you start crying you can’t stop because you’re upset that you’re crying over something stupid. That’s what I like to call an endless cycle of shame.

So I was walking, cycling the shame, when a woman flight attendant asked me if I was okay.  And here is where I probably should’ve made something up that was more worthy of crying over than a missed flight.  I don’t know, something harmless but more acceptable like “my fiancé called off the engagement because he’s in love with my step-mother,” or “I just found out my dog died after eating an endangered frog I devoted my scientific life to.”

Instead I told her I didn’t want to leave home and I missed my flight and not to worry because I was just a mess.

I have to admit, this chandelier did make the hotel look pretty classy.

Eventually, I did go to a hotel, as did two girls around my age who had also missed their flight.  But instead of being morose or annoyed they were having the time of their lives.  They were taking pictures, excited about staying in a classy hotel and embracing their adventure.  Which, suffice to say, made me feel even lamer.

In the morning I woke up early, went through security–was the token blonde white girl put through the full-body scanner after a bunch of men with darker complexions and more facial hair sauntered through.  (I wonder if they could see my very very very long leg hair that I haven’t shaved ALL of winter break? I hope they were impressed.) Then I waited VERY ATTENTIVELY right by the loading zone and got on standby to Savannah on an 8 a.m. flight only after reminding the attendant who I was and chanting “be aggressive” in my head.

Sorry for the long post, it was a long trip. Now time to shower and wax those legs.

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I’m back in Savannah. While I was gone things really fell apart. Okay, actually just one thing is wrong (that I know of).

A faucet in the bathroom of my academic building has gone off the deep end.  As I’ve always suspected they would, the motion sensor faucets have revolted.

This sink has had enough. It will no longer be controlled by the movements of human beings!

The broken sink has been running non-stop since Monday AT LEAST and who knows how long before that.

Maybe this has something to do with Halloween? Paranormal activity?

How much water is this wasting? I do not know for sure but I bet we could have a shark infested swimming pool by now.

A new school project I'm spearheading / a real place at the Golden Nugget in Las Vegas that we could recreate.

What’s even worse than wasting all that water are people who don’t use it to wash their hands. They look at the broken faucet (streaming out a constant supply of pleasantly warm water) and wash their hands at a different sink.

That’s like ordering a never-ending supply of pizza and everyday deciding to eat something else.  Soon the pile of pizza is so large that you wake up one morning trapped under pizza boxes. [You then die trying to eat your way out of your pizza tomb, grease-covered and in your pajamas (or in my case, naked).]

Too graphic? (Pun intended.)

Dear Three (unwise) Mounted Police Officers,

This morning I was riding my bike up Jones street when you turned out of the gas station in front of me.  (What were you doing at a gas station, might I ask? ) then you proceeded to trot right on through the red light across Martin Luther King Jr. boulevard without a care in the world, as if you were not dangerously violating a traffic law.
Granted, sometimes when I’m on my bike I run red lights but the consequences of our two actions vary greatly.

If a car who was unable to stop and ran either of us over the negative impact of my action would be much less than yours.
Picture this: A biker (me)  dead in the street.  Under a mildly dented fender my bike is laying in pieces on the ground.  The driver feels great remorse but eventually, after  some soul seeking, puts it all in their past and lives a healthy life.

Now, compare that with this:  Three mounted police officers rammed into by a car or truck, 27 gallons of horse blood– did you know the average horse has 9 gallons of blood?– is slowly  seeping onto the street and mixing in with the blood of three possibly dead officers.   The driver – if they survived the impact of three giant mammals impaling their windshield– is scarred for life and will never drive, or look at a horse again.  Not only did they run three cops over, who are in critical condition but also they killed three majestic animals as they were  led, against their will, into the middle of a busy street.  The driver lives the rest of his or her life in fear and each night has terrible nightmares of bathing in exploded horse corpses.

The fact of the matter is I don’t think you’re fully aware of the consequences of your actions.  In the future, please, use more caution.

best,

AEG

And they rode off into the distance unaware of their folly.