Monday, April 12, 2010
On the first flight, I learned a valuable lesson of those who travel alone and check in at the airport: you get stuck with a middle seat. And not just any middle seat, mind you. I got the middle seat in the window escape hatch row (ironic...) between two middle-aged men who were asleep before the plane rolled away from the hangar. Can you imagine? Here I am, eyes wide, hands clasped, prayers a'goin in my head in between these two men with either severe cases of narcolepsy or not a care in the world. Judging by the way one man had his shoes kicked off, I'd say it was the latter. The man to my left was courteous enough to lean his head against the window but angled his body so that his legs were in my space, and the man on my right was rubber-necking so much I thought he'd eventually lay his head on my shoulder.
And did I mention the hogging of the armrests?
Oh. My. Lawd.
So I did what any good, respectable Southern girl would do... I ordered a beer and flipped through the pages of Cosmo.
After a layover in Denver, we headed into Indy, and arrived about 1130 last night. There is no shuttle service running at night, so I hailed a cab to the hotel, dreaming of the king-size bed that awaited my tired body.
I only thought the plane ride would be the most terrifying part of my trip. I then endured fifteen minutes of pure terror, at the mercy of a crazy taxi driver who sped around curves at 80 miles an hour all the while talking on his cell phone in a language that contained a lot of "h" sounds reminiscent of throat-clearing.
And did I mention the taxi reeked of curry?
Dear Sweet Jesus.
I'm now here and settled (and exhausted) after a day of training, resting up before I meet some new friends later for dinner.
This time, I think I'll walk.