My Flawless Travel Day

This is shaping up to be a flawless travel day, is my first thought as I step off of the shuttle bus into the drizzle and chilly early spring air at the rental car lot next to the Philadelphia Airport. 

As a sports fan, I know better than this. You are not supposed to talk about the perfect game or no-hitter with the pitcher in the dugout, as it guarantees a hit next inning when he’s back up on the mound. When the sportscaster talks about the incredible streak of made shots at the free-throw line, the next shot is sure to clang off the iron. 

To be fair, it wasn’t a typical travel day. 

My son had been asking to see my sister and their kids in Maryland since we saw them when they came to Minnesota in September. When my wife, Jenni, and I looked at the calendar and discovered Spring Break rolled into Easter this year, it seemed like a fantastic opportunity to book a trip to the East Coast. 

We decided it would be fun to surprise our children with the trip when we got to the airport. Lucky for us, our daughter had been asking to go on an airplane… anywhere, so the surprise would land with her just as well as it would with him.

*Advice for parents planning to surprise their children with a trip: don’t pack your suitcase the morning of your flight. Yes, you will easily convince yourself that you aren’t procrastinating. You’ll think you’re preserving the surprise by not leaving the clue of a half-packed suitcase lying around. Unfortunately, this will make you panic every time you hear a noise while packing and cause you to question your mental capacity when you look at the random assortment of clothing in your suitcase when you open it at your final destination.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping for a more significant reaction from my children. It’s not as though they weren’t excited, but I was hoping for utter shock. What percentage of people have had the experience of being surprised with a trip to the airport on the day of their departure? 

The surprise could be the worst destination in the world, say… Madison, WI, and still, I would be in a puddle of tears if I got surprised with a vacation at the airport.

We checked our suitcase without issue despite Jenni packing a bag for her and my daughter that weighed nearly half as much as their combined body weight. 

Security took about ten minutes despite the fact we forgot to take tablets out of two of our carry-ons. We found food the kids and Jenni would eat before the flight, right before the hangry river of rage started to flow out of my wife; the Prosecco helped, too. 

If your significant other gets “hangry,” do not ask them, “Are you hungry?” When you notice the hanger level starting to rise. I nearly derailed our trip by making this observation about my wife as we stood in line for pizza.

Our flight was on time, and we landed ahead of schedule. When we got to baggage claim, I immediately saw our overweight suitcase making its loops around the carousel and snagged it. 

This is why I had the guts to allow myself to take a breath and pat myself on the back in the rental lot. 

I walked over to look at the board to find my name and where my rental card would be parked. Instead of a parking space number next to my name, I saw “see desk.”

Most days, I would have been panicked by this message. On this day, it didn’t occur to me that I could ever have an issue traveling ever again. 

I entered the small yet clean rental car office. I waited in a short line to talk to one of two representatives helping other customers. 

I gave my name as I approached the kiosk and started to wince in preparation for bad news. After some quick clicking on the keyboard, the woman smiled and said, “You reserved an electric car; that’s why you needed to come in here today.”

I did, in fact, reserve a Tesla. It was a secondary surprise for my son and a treat for me. Before you start calling this a humble brag, I will let you know it cost ten dollars more than renting a Toyota Corolla or “something similar” when I reserved the car. 

Once everything was settled, the rental car company representative told me they would immediately pull the car up for me. 

My family was waiting on the curb when I joined them. 

“Daddy, what if they gave us a Tesla?” My son asked as he saw our car weaving through the parking lot.

“Yeah, I don’t think we will get a Tesla, buddy.”

“Yeah, that would be, like, so expensive.” 

I smiled and winked at Jenni as we silently acknowledged how perfect that was for the surprise to land even better. 

Moments like those make you forget the whining, the fights, and the worry of having kids. Like a stack of napkins that have been blown to the ground by the wind, some of the moments are carried away before you have a chance to remember they existed; others hit the ground and stay put just long enough for you to bend over and grab them, almost as if they were holding on just for you. 

If you’re a parent, chase those moments and stomp them to the ground before the wind whisks them away. Pick it up and shove it into your back pocket with the snot cover tissue and fruit snack wrappers because someday you’ll pull it out. It will be the most valuable napkin you have ever held. 

When the Tesla pulled up, my son had the look of shock you’d expect to see on someone who just found out they were going on a flight halfway across the country for Spring Break at the airport. 

As we pulled up to the booth at the exit of the rental car lot, the attendant scanned the barcode on the dash and said, “It’s not letting me check you out; there is a problem with the car.”

“What does that mean, ‘there is a problem with the car?'” Jenni whisper-shouted at me from the passenger seat. 

Twenty-four and a half years of experience with this woman had taught me that the question was not rhetorical, so I repeated it to the attendant. 

“I don’t know. Sometimes, there are errors with the car, but we don’t know what they are until a technician looks at it. Let me call my manager.”

“What the fuck does that even mean? Why would they drive a car up to us that wasn’t working?” Jenni continued from the passenger seat, making sure I was seeing the injustice of the situation we were in, and making sure I didn’t fold to the pressure in an effort to make the interaction as smooth as possible. 

Usually, that would be a fair concern. However, I rented this car for my son, who had, just a week earlier, counted every Tesla we saw on the road throughout a thirty-minute drive. Leaving the rental car lot in something other than a Tesla was impossible.

The attendant wrapped up the call with his manager, “Yeah, you are going to have to bring the car back in and pick a new one. Good news, you’re getting a complimentary upgrade to any sedan in that row.”

“This is a Tesla… upgrade… Tesla!” is all I can hear from the whisper-yelling from the passenger seat.

“So, you’re saying there’s a problem with the car, not with my reservation?”

“Right. I know you really want to drive the Tesla, but you’re not going to be able to today.”

I hadn’t said anything about being excited to drive the Tesla, so this comment convinced me I would need to have a conversation with someone else. He directed the line of cars behind me to back up so I could return the vehicle. 

“Do you want me to go talk to them?” Jenni asked. I would typically respond with an enthusiastic “yes,” but since going with the flow would have ruined my son’s day, I let her know I would handle it. 

I returned to the rental car office and approached the woman who had assisted me the first time. I told her I wasn’t allowed to leave with the Tesla. She looked as confused as I was by this news and told me she would investigate. She went to the back room to discuss the situation with her manager. 

I stood in the empty office waiting and rehearsing how I would get ‘tough’ if the answer was anything other than renting us the Tesla when my phone rang. I looked at the screen to see a call from an unknown number in Philadelphia and answered.

“Hi, Mr. Severson. This is Janet with Delta Baggage Services. Did you take the wrong luggage after your flight from Minneapolis today?”

I didn’t have to think about it as I closed my eyes and tilted my face skyward, “Most likely.” 

“Have you left the airport, sir?”

“No, I’m at the rental car lot right now, but I can be back as soon as I have my rental car.”

She told me where to go to return the stranger’s suitcase I had in my possession and get my actual suitcase while I apologized profusely. 

My anxiety, which is typically paired with my travel, was finally served. I had to jinx it by slowing up before I crossed the finish line and was now facing my punishment. 

The woman returned from the back room, and I readied myself for battle. Fortunately for me, there would be no battle as she explained that she had missed a step in renting an electronic vehicle out to me. 

As Jenni and our kids had never gotten out, I returned to the car to see “On Rent” written with white car chalk on the two back windows. The attendant from the booth had come around and written this to ensure we didn’t leave the lot in the Tesla. Having that written on both the windows took some fun out of driving it, but I had a suitcase to return.

We parked near the Philadelphia airport’s arrival doors in an area with few cars, hoping no one would walk through to tell Jenni she needed to move the vehicle. 

I ran down the sidewalk and through baggage claim like a former Heisman Trophy winner to return the stolen luggage, convinced I was about to get an earful from an Eagles fan.

I found the Delta Baggage office and was relieved not to see anyone obviously waiting on their luggage. I found Janet, who assured me this kind of thing happens all the time. 

“You have morons flying in from Minnesota all the time?”

Janet stared at me, not getting my joke. A hand reached from behind me and rolled what I thought was my suitcase away. 

I turned and stood face to face with the man whose luggage I had taken. He looked to be in his late twenties. He stared at me with a vacant look. He wasn’t mad, but he didn’t have a look of understanding either. 

“I am so unbelievably sorry.”

No change in expression.

I then did something I had never done before in my entire life: I pressed my palms together in front of my chest and started doing these twenty-degree bows as I repeated, “I’m so sorry,” multiple times. 

Still nothing.

I was about to turn to Janet to gauge how this interaction was going from a third party’s vantage point. Before I could do that, a younger man leaned his head through the door and, with a thick accent, said, “It’s okay.”

“Are you sure? I’m so sorry, I was trying to figure out where to catch the shuttle for the rental cars and I grabb…”

“It’s. Okay,” the second man interrupted. The other man flashed me a quick grin before he turned, and they walked away.

Turning toward Janet to grab my bag, I said, “I’m just going to get out of this airport before anything else goes wrong.”

“It really happens all the time,” Janet called after me as I walked away.

“I really doubt that,” I said to myself as I began my way back to the rental car with the correct suitcase this time. 

People often use hyperbole when discussing what they would do for their children. Parents make statements like, “I’d step in front of a bus for my child” or “I’d take a bullet for my kids,” and I always think: but would you?

It’s not that I am questioning their love. Instead, it’s usually because those statements are uttered after something mundane occurs. It’s easy to claim you’d do anything, but we don’t get to know what we would do until those moments present themselves. 

Now, I can tell my kids, honestly, “I would have a stern conversation with a rental car agent for you.”

Because even though it didn’t happen, I was ready. I was prepared to say what needed to be said to ensure my son got to ride in a Tesla.

I had a short time to come up with what I would say, and it was good. If said with the correct tone of voice, I would have gotten the Tesla and most likely gotten a discount. It’s a short statement that is to the point and could get me out of even the stickiest of situations. 

Since I didn’t use it, I figured here is as good a place as any to share it:

“I’m going to go get my wife.”

Cheers. 

Spring Break and Airport Pet Peeves | The Kids Are In Bed Ep. 8

Check out Tim’s latest essay, Bar Soap and People Pleasing.

This week, Tim and Jenni talk about the early spring blizzard in Minnesota. Then it’s time to get wild because it’s Spring Break 2024! Tim and Jenni talk about their plan to surprise their kids at the airport with a trip to Maryland to visit Tim’s sister. Then they talk about airports and airplanes: when to arrive to the airport for your flight, traveling with kids, Jenni getting through TSA, and Tim’s biggest airplane passenger pet peeve. They talk about their vacation plans, and Jenni reveals just how much she loves Old Bay. We appreciate you being here! Don’t forget to subscribe.

My Business Trip

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Watching business travelers is one of my favorite things about going to the airport. Those who never need to tell what their airline membership status is because they are the embodiment of Platinum. 

Meanwhile, I bragged to everyone I could find when I hit Delta’s “Silver Medallion” status a year ago, hoping no one would ask the obvious next question, “What does that get you?”

“Unlimited Complimentary Upgrades.”

“So you fly First Class a lot?”

“I’ve never flown First Class,” I respond, avoiding eye contact and hoping the topic of conversation changes.

The truth is it makes me feel like I’m one of those elite people who travel for business consistently. One of those who navigate a chaotic airport effortlessly while rolling their matching carry-on and laptop bag behind in their C-Suite attire. 

I find that aesthetic far superior to that of the twenty-something who has jammed all of their clothing into an enormous backpack while dressed as a Bohemian fever dream come to life. If you’ve been to the airport, you know the outfit: Birkenstocks, pajama pants, tie-dye shirt, and a blue bandana covering their ratty dreadlocks traveling back home to Omaha. 

This preference applies exclusively within the confines of an airport. I’m hanging with twenty-something anywhere else in the world, mainly for the free weed.

It will come as no surprise that I was thrilled when presented with an opportunity to attend a three-day conference at the Georgia International Convention Center, located roughly two hundred yards from the Atlanta Airport. A fine venue to learn about the latest and greatest updates in the credit card processing industry. 

While it wasn’t glamorous, it made me feel like a grown-up. One of those moments that remind me I am, in fact, an adult, like not asking permission to buy candy at the store or buying porn at a sex shop mid-morning on a Tuesday. You know, adult stuff.

I bought a new carry-on for the trip and planned my travel outfit to be optimized for TSA. Shoes that I could easily slip on and off, jeans that fit just right without a belt, and a sports jacket to elevate it all a little bit, all in the hope I would pass as a Platinum Medallion member on a pure travel day. A look that let everyone know I wasn’t on my way to a multi-million dollar meeting today but tomorrow possibly. I even took out my laptop on the plane so that people around me would be impressed by my work ethic. At the same time, I clicked around a fake spreadsheet rather than doing any actual work. 

Now you have to wonder, who else is doing that?

The thrill of the business trip ended when I stepped off the airport tram at my hotel a mere forty-five seconds after leaving the airport.

For the next seventy-two hours, I would be forced to wear a lanyard, go to classes about the credit card processing industry, and talk to some of the biggest slime-ball salesmen the world has seen while pretending to give a shit about any of it.

On the second night of my business trip, cocktails were the solution to allow me to have a good time. I went to the hotel restaurant, sat at the bar, and watched in silent frustration as the bartender ruined the Manhattan I ordered by muddling an orange slice and two maraschino cherries in my glass. Nevertheless, I smiled when she set it on a coaster in front of me and responded with an overly enthusiastic, “Thank you, looks amazing.” 

I sat at the bar alone. People on either side of me were talking shop and introducing themselves while I hoped the liquid courage would kick in and allow me to join in. I handed my credit card to the bartender to pay for my drink. 

“I saw that,” the woman in her mid to late twenties sitting beside me said with a smirk. 

I glance at the crowded bar to either side of me to ensure this is directed at me. “You saw what?”

“Your credit card.”

Why is this woman interested in my credit card?

“Oh, yeah, I used it to pay for my drink.”

She laughed as she spun her stool to face me, taking a drink of her gin and tonic. “It’s black.”

“What is?”

“Your credit card.”

My card was black in color only. It was not the exclusive American Express Black Card she assumed it to be. Not that my US Bank-issued Visa Flex Perks Reward Card didn’t give me a pretty solid 1% cash back on my purchases. 

“Yes, it is.”

I didn’t lie. I would have probably told the truth if Ms. Credit Report had asked me if it was a Black Card specifically.

I stood up from my stool, deciding to try my luck at the bar on the other side of the hotel lobby. As I did so, the woman obsessed with my credit card introduced herself. We talked briefly about where we were from and what companies we worked for, and I retreated to the other bar. 

Fortunately, I found a few familiar faces. I had a decent enough time meeting new people and reveling in cocktails. 

Near the end of the night, I found myself stuck at a high-top table with a man who had spent his entire adult life in the credit card processing industry. If you’ve been to a professional conference, you know this guy. No matter the time of day or setting, he is talking shop. No attention is paid to your attempts to change the topic as he continues to talk about the most boring subjects while nursing a light beer for far too long. 

I gave an exaggerated stretch, preparing to deliver my excuse for needing to head back to my hotel room, when I heard a voice over my shoulder. “You owe me a drink.”

I turned, puzzled, to see the same woman from the first bar standing behind me with an empty wine glass.

“I do?”

She stared back at me, telepathically telling me to catch the hint. After a beat, I realized she was attempting to save me.

“I do,” I said, turning to the man, “Sorry. Thanks for all the information about the upcoming rate changes to Visa Corporate Cards; it will really help me out.”

I lied. He hadn’t told me anything I didn’t know, and none of the information would help me.

“Thanks, that dude was never going to stop talking. What are you drinking?”

I took her order and went to the bar to get a couple of drinks. When I returned, I found her at a high top with a couple of the familiar faces I had seen earlier. 

As the night wore on, the crowd slowly dissipated to ten people. We stood in the lobby talking.

I felt like an actual adult at a business conference in Atlanta, having cocktails at an airport Marriott with a lanyard around my neck. This was a scene I had witnessed as a kid when I would travel to conferences with my Dad. 

The bartender was counting the minutes until closing time while cleaning glasses. “Last call.” 

Hearing that, I took the last swallow of my third Manhattan. I began checking my pockets for my belongings in preparation for getting back to my room. Undoubtedly, the other adults I was gathered with were ready to call it a night.

“Anyone want another beer?”

There was a pause. The pause. This was an end-of-the-night stand-off that would be settled by the sole brave enough to answer first. 

I stare at my empty glass, hoping someone will break the silence. “Why not?”

I am not good with awkward silence, but I am good at drinking cocktails. 

Two guys from the group went to the bar and returned with enough beer in their arms for everyone to have two more beers.

Most people are grown adolescents pretending to be adults, including myself.

The night continued, and we carried on having a boisterous conversation in the empty lobby, our laughs echoing off the tiled floor. By the night’s end, I was almost exclusively talking to the woman from the bar. It turned out we had quite a bit in common, she was an easy laugh, and I had a beer in my hand—the only three ingredients I needed to morph from an introvert into an extrovert.

I continued to enjoy the conversation until the beer ran out. I was ecstatic that I wasn’t in my room watching a movie and eating terrible food. 

When the beer ran out, we all agreed it was a good night, but it was time to end it. We walked to the elevators while continuing the conversation, squeezing every last drop of fun out of the night we could manage.

An elevator door dinged, and I entered the tiny elevator with the woman from the bar and four guys from the group. We went up one floor, and the elevator doors opened.

She bites her lip while looking at me with doe eyes. “This is my floor.”

“Oh, okay. It was great to meet you,” I said with the enthusiasm of a kid who made an unexpected friend at summer camp.

“Same. I have had so much fun talking to you tonight.”

She stepped off the elevator as one of the other passengers held the door from shutting. She turned around to face the five of us left in the elevator, her eyes trained on me expectantly.

“Have a good night,” I said as the elevator doors began to close.

I saw disappointment flash across her face just as the doors clanked shut and the elevator began its ascent to the next floor. The slight lurch when it started reminded me how many Manhattans I had consumed.

One of the guys in the elevator loudly blurted. “Dude, you’re getting off on the wrong fucking floor.” 

The elevator erupted into laughter. I laughed along despite not understanding what we were laughing at.

We stopped laughing when the elevator doors opened on the next floor, my floor.

I walked off the elevator and stopped. “Wait, why did I get off on the wrong floor?”

They all chuckled, and one responded, “She wanted you to go to her room. Are you serious right now?”

The doors closed, and I heard their laughter fade as they made their way to the next floor, leaving me alone in the hushed hotel hallway. 

I can count on one hand the number of times I have been hit on in my life by someone other than my wife. I’d have to take off my socks to count the number of times she’s hit on me, so I guess you can say things are going pretty well.

Since it is so infrequent for me, I am a little slow on the uptake.

I ran through the night’s events as I walked to my hotel room. 

She got interested because of my credit card. She came and saved me from the boring conversation. I bought her a drink. She was next to me all night, even when I talked about college football with that guy. She laughed at almost everything I said, even things that weren’t funny. And she put her hand on my arm every time she laughed.

I stood in my hotel bathroom, having a staring contest with the drunk in the mirror, when I finally realized the guys in the elevator were right. 

I went to the queen-sized bed I had arbitrarily chosen as my sleeping bed when I arrived and laid down, promising myself I’d take my clothes off when the room stopped spinning.

I wake up to a hotel maid attempting to enter my room at 10 AM. Panicked, I sat up, saying, “No, thank you. Please come back later.” 

The maid apologized as the door clicked shut. 

I’m lying in the same spot I closed my eyes. I’m fully clothed except for my left sock. I glanced at the alarm clock to see I had already missed the first session of the morning for the conference, but I needed a shower to shake the hangover. I exited my room before checkout time and went down to catch the last few hours of the conference.

I filled my computer bag with the complimentary snacks available at the breakfast bar for the conference attendees. Who passes up free candy bars?

I had one more class session on my agenda. As I made my way to the class, I saw her walking towards me. I lit up with a smile, excited to see my new friend. “Hey!”

She didn’t slow down or change her expression. “Good morning.”

I walked into the class about 10 minutes before it started to see the man who had made credit card processing his life sitting at a table by himself, reading through the packet we were all given with far too much interest.

I turned on my heel and went to the tram to take me to the airport. I sat at my gate, looking the woman up on social media, not because I was interested in connecting with her but because I was terrified she had heard the laughter from the elevator. When the elevator doors shut, I pictured her assuming I had made fun of her. Fortunately, I realized there was no message I could come up with that wouldn’t leave me looking like a jerk or, worse, a creep. I turned on some music and attempted to get comfortable in my chair. 

They called me to board the plane. I snapped into elite traveler mode and made my way to the plane via the steamy and crowded jetway. I found my aisle seat next to a man, already asleep against the window, and a woman sitting in the middle seat, looking nervous. 

I placed my carry-on under the seat in front of me and unraveled my earbuds to drown out the rest of the plane.

The woman next to me was nervously thumbing the pages of her romance novel. “What is that?”

“Excuse me?” I asked, thinking that something about me and Atlanta must drive the women crazy.

She pointed to the airplane’s ceiling, “The smoke or the, umm, steam up there.”

I looked to the ceiling to see what she was talking about. The cold air from the airplane’s air conditioning, mixed with the hot and humid Atlanta spring air, was causing a steaming effect, which was amplified by the blue ambient lights on the plane.

“There must be turbulence on our flight path.”

“What?”

“The pilot must be expecting a rough ride. When they expect a rough ride, they release a little laughing gas, like what you get at the dentist, into the cabin to keep us calm,” I said, pretending this is common knowledge amongst elite business travelers.

Her face shifted from nervous to terrified.

Why the hell did I say that? I thought before saying, “I’m kidding. The pilots have the air conditioner running to try and keep it comfortable in here while people finish boarding.”

It’s the sort of joke I try to sneak past my wife, not one I tell to nervous strangers on a plane. She muttered a thanks as she opened her novel. I put my earbuds in and turned on some music. As I rested the back of my head on the uncomfortable headrest of my seat, I realized why I said what I said.

I really missed my wife.

When I got to my car at the Minneapolis airport, I resolved to leave the business trips to the experts.

Cheers.