Blog-on-the-road, Part 1

Atlanta airport, 8:30: It has been an odd trip, a curious blend of smooth sailing and frustrating delays.

First, the drive to the airport Saturday night becomes a bit of a knuckle-biter as Gill calls Orange’s special traffic report and discovers that both the coastal highway and the roads leading to the alternate route are completely snarled. He opts for the traffic jam in Wadi Ara, which probably turns out to be a smart choice. Once we work our way through the slowdown, we hit the #6 highway, Israel’s first toll road, and go blasting through at a steady 120 kph. But we have lost a lot of time, and it is 21:00 as we pull up to the airport. With less than 2.5 hours before my flight, I am nervous, but I sail through security, baggage check-in, and passport control in just 20 minutes. I order a big, juicy, messy "toast” (Israeli version of a grilled cheese sandwich, this one stuffed with fresh tomatoes, two kinds of cheese, pesto, and olives). I am fairly sure that I make little whimpering noises as I scarf it down, the cheese dripping over the table like molten lava. By the time I can get myself cleaned up, removing residual traces of oily pesto and bread crumbs, it is getting close to boarding time.

The flight itself turns out to be quite smooth. A 13-hour long-haul direct from Tel Aviv to Atlanta, the flight has all the makings of a potential nightmare. But there is no one immediately next to me, no screaming babies, and no one kicking the back of my seat. As an added bonus, my one-over seatmate is another road warrior, disinclined to chitchat. I settle in, down two Nyquil cold caps, and manage to sleep for at least seven hours; in fact, I get through the entire flight without having to exchange more than a dozen words with anyone. The Delta flight crew boasts its usual compliment of mature women, and their presence is infinitely more comforting than that of the fluffy young things (both male and female). Someone with a truly bizarre accent echoes the announcements in Hebrew, but the Arabic announcements have been dropped. I wonder if it is a policy based on traveler statistics, or if this flight crew simply lacks someone who speaks Arabic.

Most of the passengers are American tourists returning from tours in Israel, or Israeli business people heading off to meetings and work-related trips. An hour or two into the flight, the PA system comes on and the crew ask for a doctor. Someone has collapsed. But I am so groggy that I can barely keep my eyes open, and I doze off again before discovering the end of the little medical drama. All must be well, though, because there is no waiting ambulance on arrival!

Atlanta is Delta’s hub, and one of America’s busiest airports. The heightened security causes huge snarls (we’re at alert level orange, whatever that means), and it takes well over half an hour to get through immigration. The process of picking up baggage and manually transferring it the transfer baggage area adds more time, but the real bottleneck is the second security spot, which has us backed up for at least 45 minutes. A young man behind me is anxious about missing his connecting flight, though most people in the line have the same problem. For the most part, people are patient, but a few get frustrated and end up going head-to-head with one of the security personnel.

I’m finally through the gauntlet, and free to roam around, have a snack, and look at gadgets while killing time before my connecting flight. I am fascinated by the people working here, who seem to range from poorly-educated, minimum wage employees to technically-savvy and product-educated. I am shocked by the outrageous prices charged for a cup of coffee, and then am equally shocked to ask for hot water and get it for free.

There are Marines everywhere, passing through. The new desert uniform looks like a pair of Eddie Bauer pajamas. I wonder what kind of an impression it makes on America’s enemies in the field.

I’m amused by the new form of laptop envy, where small is good and tiny is better. Us road warriors eye each other cautiously, checking out the coolness of the laptops and gadgets.

Bentonville, Arkansas, 14:00: The flight out of Atlanta turns out to be on a tiny, noisy prop jet. I manage to drink my tomato juice without sloshing all over, but that is the extent of my grace, as I reach for my MP3 player at the exact moment that the flight attendant is passing. My elbow, her hip. She will have a nice bruise tomorrow. Do I lose frequent flyer miles for that?

As we approach the Arkansas airport, we fly over housing so new that the yards are flat squares of dirt; no landscaping has gone in yet. The land is flat and open, with small copses of deciduous trees breaking up the vast expanse. I’m not sure what I expected, but I guess I thought there would be more cows or something.

The airport is tiny, and as soon as I retrieve my bag from the carousel, I arrange a taxi in to the hotel. The driver is chatty, and I learn the whole saga of the purchase of this particular vehicle. He's from Mississippi, but thinks this part of the country is beautiful. When I ask about the seemingly unoccupied tract of houses, he explains that they probably won't ever sell, as there are no more jobs.

I call Gill and let him know that I'm alive and well. Nadine refuses to meow at me over the phone. She'll hold a grudge for a while and make me pay when I get home.

Onward.