Blog-on-the-road, Part 4

Somewhere over Texas: I leave Arkansas in a dark, rainy pre-dawn. Once again, I wake after only a few hours of sleep and must face a long travel day feeling pretty wiped out. The hotel’s somewhat casual approach to hot water means that I have yet another cold shower to start my day. The perky young thing at the desk says, “Oh, I don’t know anything about that!” That is what various hotel staff have been saying for the several days. Good thing it isn’t snowing.

My airport shuttle driver arrives exactly on time and whisks me off, stopping to pick up another passenger on the way. The airport is so small that it just takes a few minutes to check in and get through security. I’ve been dreading airport security here in American’s heartland, convinced that my passport would single me out for “special” processing (as it does in many major airports). But to my surprise, the security people are extraordinarily pleasant and only ask that I finish drinking my bottled water before going through the security area. I’m not sure about the logic; I am, after all, only transferring the liquid from one container (plastic bottle) to another (my stomach), but I’m just one of a half-dozen bored business travelers taking that final shlug of water and tossing the bottle.

Once again, I’m loaded onto a flying cigar tube. It is a tiny, noisy prop jet filled with large, beefy guys. I can’t hear myself think, but I manage to fall asleep all the same.

In Houston, things start going wrong. The tram connecting the terminals breaks down, and we are left sitting there like stranded tourists on a Disneyland ride. Finally, an excessively perky voice over the PA informs us that they are “experiencing temporary technical difficulties.” Everyone is on their way to connecting flights, and I spy more than one passenger nervously peeking at the time. We finally get underway, and I arrive at the right terminal, only to discover that my flight has been delayed.

But the posted delay is only the merest hint of the real situation. Heavy winds have picked up, forcing all planes to taxi to a far runway for takeoff. Once we are finally on the plane, we end up sitting on the runway for another 90 minutes, waiting patiently for our turn. We are now heading to San Diego, but over two hours late.

Oh, those Razorbacks: Arkansas has turned out to be an interesting experience. In just a few days, I find my speech slowing, slurring, and taking on a hint of a twang. The people have all been friendly and quite frankly curious about me, and I get into some rather strange conversations while waiting for my shuttle to and from the client site. Fred, a rail-thin elderly driver, chats to me while waiting for another fair. He tells me about his wife (number four) and how he got married (for the first time) at age 15. He insists that the massive tuna boat of a Chrysler he is driving is the finest automobile ever made. I offer him a chocolate and we talk cars. I tell him that I live overseas, and that where I’m from, most people have cars that are very small. (“You must be from Canada,” he says, which immediately goes into my list of All-time Favorite Non Sequiturs.) But Fred is full of surprises. When I mention seeing a tiny woman driving a massive Hummer, and mildly suggest that this is not the most efficient form of transportation, Fred doesn’t disagree. “Most them folks driving big ’ol SUVs an’ trucks don’ hardly need ’em. All they be doin’ is givin’ money to them Middle East countries.” Well, and Big Oil, and contributing to global warming, and generally destroying the planet, but I’m all with ya’, Fred.

Another moment of delight came when one driver complimented me on my English. This from a guy who thinks that all y’all is a plural pronoun. But by and large, I find the people here to be friendly, open, gracious, and full of surprises. My client company, for example, keep me on my toes by the very diversity of the employees, and I honestly enjoy meeting and working with each one of them.

My scariest moment (other than seeing someone pour chicken gravy on biscuits for breakfast) comes when I attempt to run in to a large store to grab a few small drugstore items. I push through the doors and discover a massive super store about the size of Karmiel. I panic. Even when I locate the aisle containing toothpaste, I am stunned by the sheer volume of choices. Why does anyone need to have 118 types of toothpaste to choose from? I grab a few items and flee, thinking longingly of the cozy manageability of my local Gabi-Pharm.

Thumbs up to the Marines: When fundy Christian toy manufacturer Valencia tries to donate talking Jesus dolls to the US Marine Corps Reserve’s Toys for Tots program, the company is politely but firmly rejected. Michael La Roe, Valencia’s director of business development, says, “I believe … anyone can benefit from hearing the words of the Bible.” A spokesperson for the Marines blandly pointed out that they donate toys to all children—yes, even Jewish and Muslim children! (Not to mention about a dozen other religions on the planet.)