Things have been super hectic, so if you have been lacking in journal... don't worry, I'll catch up. Work has been super hectic for the last few weeks and will probably continue, *and* I went to Nawlins for a few days...

Type atcha soon...

And now for...

The Jazzfest adventure

So Thursday, the insanity began at about 6:15. Brian, Jason, and I were on our way to the Oakland Airport to catch our flights to Nawlins, Loozy-anna when I realized that I’d left my TICKET at home. Normally, this would have been no big-deal, however, this was a Southwest Airlines Rapid Rewards Ticket. It says explicitly, you *must* bring this ticket with you to check in.

I convinced myself to breathe. Very, very slowly.

Needless to say

“Oh shit”

When this little bit of information dawned on me I was thrown instantly into a state of extreme panic.

“Oh shit Oh shit Oh shit Oh shit Oh shit”
“What?”
“My fucking ticket”
“Oh.”

*sigh*

I told the cab driver to keep going; to drop them off at the airport. Better one person miss the flight than all three, right?

I still couldn’t help being frustrated/annoyed/disappointed. I felt so ready to be on vacation! I felt like a balloon that had just noticed air leaking out of a small hole… I tried to convince myself that everything was going to be fine, that I had a little more than two hours until *my* flight was scheduled to leave, that I would make my flight with time to spare. I would take the cab over to the West Oakland BART station, BART to Powell, catch a cab home, and make it wait while I run in, get my ticket, and be back on my way to the Airport just under an hour.

But after the cab driver left Brian and Jason at the Southwest terminal, things started to go bad. First the cabbie didn’t know the where the West Oakland BART station was. Then we got directions to the wrong station. Then, he spent 10 minutes looking at a Thomas Guide and trying to figure out where he was. I even tried calling Brian to see if he could give me directions to the station. Finally the cabbie called his dispatcher for directions, but hadn’t realized that he had already passed *every* possible exit.

If I’d known before what was in store for my morning when I realized that I’d simply forgotten my ticket, I wouldn’t have panicked.

It was about 6:45 when we missed the last off-ramp of the 880. We were Bay Bridge bound. All of those lovely commuting types were on their way to their big office jobs in the City and I was stuck right in the middle. It took nearly 25 minutes to get through the toll gate, another 5 or so to get through the metering lights, another 10 to get across the bridge.

It was about 7:20 when I got to my house. The ticket was right where I’d left it, but I also realized that I nearly forgot my itinerary as well. I tried logging onto my work e-mail to print it out, but due to this weird certificate caching security thing, it would only bring up Brian’s e-mail. The only way I knew how to get clear out the security certificate was to reboot the computer. By the time I left it was nearly twenty till 8.

My flight was supposed to leave at 8:25.

I had less than 45 minutes to get to the airport through downtown San Francisco, have the Southwest people check off my ticket, go through the security mess, get my boarding pass and find a seat. About 10 minutes from the airport, Brian called me and said that all flights leaving bound for New Orleans on Southwest were leaving out of Terminal 1. I had the cabbie drop me there with all my luggage, and 150 dollars lighter at exactly 8:15am.

I ran all the way to the security check point, but when I handed them my ticket, the lady said that I had to go and check in at the Southwest ticket counter, in the *other* terminal.

I had not understood the true meaning of the word “Panic” until that moment. I had managed to get back and forth across the bay, get my ticket, despite morning traffic and silly cab drivers. I was *not* going to miss it now. I *ran* (and really, I’m not a running-type) to the other terminal. I walked up to the counter and asked for help. The guy at the counter was “occupied”. I tried again; I stopped a lady with a Southwest symbol on her shirt. She directed me to the opposite end of the ticket counter. From there, it was just a matter of getting through the security line and hopping on one of those little electric truck things *back* to the other terminal.

When I boarded the plane, the clock on my phone read 8:22.

I don’t think I relaxed at all until *after* I had caught my connecting flight in Phoenix.

Anyway, I managed to catch up with Ira (another jazzfest junkie) at the airport in Nawlins and we caught a cab to our home for the next four and a half days, Holiday Inn French Quarter. We went up to the room and dropped off our baggage. Brian and Jason had already eaten, and Jason was asleep (he had come from China to SF, then turned around and flew to New Orleans).

After saying our hellos, Ira and I ended up going to this little place called Felix’s for nummy nawlins’ cuisine. Ira had a gumbo and a Hurricane and I had a 3 sampler thing, jambalaya, ettufette, and red-beans and rice... MORE LATER