27 and Airborne

So I decided to spend my 27th birthday in St. Louis, at a users' group conference for UW's fundraising software. It seemed like the only appealing choice at the time. After sixteen hours on airplanes in three days, I can't help but wonder if I made the wrong choice.

It started at 4:00 on Wednesday morning, when my alarm went off in the total darkness of my bedroom. I must have fallen asleep in the shower, since I hadn't eaten breakfast or changed out of my slippers when Jane called from my driveway at 4:40. Matthew was kind enough to drop Jane and me off at PWI, where we waited in our first airport line of the week, ditched our liquids over 3.4 ounces, and took off for Detroit, our first layover.

By 8:00, we were hovering over Detroit, in good shape to make our connection to St. Louis. I suppose I should have chosen a layover in Atlanta or Houston, somewhere mired under less fog and ice than Detroit. After suggesting that we may divert to Saginaw or Traverse City, our pilot graciously rerouted us to Pittsburgh, the nearest airport with sufficient visability to land.

After an hour on the tarmac, we were assured that there would be a client service representative waiting on the runway to help us all with out connections. There were, in fact, two. And hundreds of people waiting to be helped. By 1:10, after two hours in line, we were told that another flight to Detroit had opened up, and that we could be on it if we hurried. We did, and by 3:20, we were at the Detroit airport, where we each ran an escalator-aided four-minute mile, reaching terminal A in time to catch a 3:30 to St. Louis, where we would arrive just after the conference ended for the day. My suitcase, however, was not so lucky.

A dozen wings at the hotel bar at 6:30 were the first meal Jane and I ate, 14 hours into our trip. Best wings ever. We met up with Andy, ate dinner at a Thai place on Washington Ave, and called it an early night. Between inquiries to the concierge and Northwest Airlines (which they do abbreviate NWA, in case you were wondering) as to the whereabouts of my bag, I called my dad to wish him a happy birthday and let Jill know I'd made it safely to my king bed, where I would wake up at 6:30, refreshed and 27.

After a day of seminars, networking, and the arrival of my luggage, I spent the afternoon taking in the Gateway City. The new Busch Stadium's entire field is visible from the street, and the Arch is every bit as archy as advertised. I contemplated the scenic tour to the top, but it would have made me late for dinner with Mike and Jenn. The newlyweds picked me up at the hotel and took me to the Schlafly Brewery, a perfect spot for microbrews, bar food, and rehashing thirteen years of suburban complacency and everything we've learned about the real world since. Later on, Jane and Andy met me in the hotel bar with a piece of cake and a candle, and each bought me a birthday scotch. I responded to several phone calls and text messages (thanks to all who remembered) and went to bed.

On Friday, I caught breakfast and one last best practices seminar before another jaunt into St. Louis. The municipal section of town is flush with statues of anonymous St. Lunatics, all pointing the way to the city's most unexpected attraction, the Bowling/St. Louis Cardinals Hall of Fame. I stopped by with about an hour to burn and spent 45 minutes in awe of Cool Papa Bell, Dizzy Dean, Stan Musial, Bob Gibson, Ozzie Smith, and the appallingly mediocre 2006 team that won 82 games and one World Series. I took a quick jog through the history of bowling and decided it would be foolish not to cash in my four free frames. After three straight spares, I slapped down a dollar and finished the game, speeding my way to a 111.

I raced back to the hotel to check out and grabbed lunch with Jane and Andy. After lunch, we learned that flights out of Newark, the site of our return connection, were severely backed up, so much so that we wouldn't be able to take our scheduled flight and get back to Portland that night. Jane worked her magic on the phone, put NWA in its place, and got us confirmed on an earlier flight, so we hopped in a cab, crossed our fingers, and flew to Newark, where we would spend four hours looking for a serviceable restaurant (no dice) and chatting at the Sam Adams Brew House before boarding our final flight. Already two hours late, we were informed by the pilot that we were thirty-fifth in line on the runway. Seventy minutes later, we were in the air, jammed into seats built for one-armed dwarves for the last time all weekend. I was thrilled to see Jill waiting just outside when we landed just before midnight.

By week's end, I'd spent enough time on planes to take me to Eastern Europe or South America and back, all for four donor choice seminars and a dozen delicious chicken wings. Happy birthday to me.