Have you ever realized some force is aggressively acting against you, perhaps in combination with all of Nature and the National Parks Service? I did several years ago, and now know there is a broad conspiracy to prevent me from arriving anywhere on time. Although I have yet to determine the mastermind behind it, I can tell you the plot involves major airlines, the French rail system, the Hadley shuttle, and, of course, all of Nature and the National Parks Service.
I first began to suspect something strange the summer after I graduated from high school, when my family and I spent two weeks driving through Yellowstone National Park. The park's roadway system is composed almost entirely of windy, two-lane roads that play hide-and-seek with its forests and their inhabitants; the kind of road that makes you want to go 80, hugging the curves and cutting into sharp turns.
And had it not been for the travel conspiracy that was about to reveal the first clues to its existence, we would have been able to. But, after about the 22nd time we got stuck in a 100-mile stretch of no-passing zone behind an RV driven by Mid-Western retirees determined not to exceed the 45 mph speed limit, I began to wonder if there were greater forces working against us.
My suspicions were confirmed one beautiful July afternoon when, in true American-family style, we were cruising along the side of a mountain in our rented Ford Expedition (dubbed by my father the "Exhibition" for its size and 13 mpg highway fuel efficiency rating), finally surpassing the 50 mph mark, when suddenly the parks service realized we were exceeding the speed limit and loosed a herd of wild mountain goats to stop us. We rounded a corner and sped straight into a thicket of rubbernecking tourists and oblivious goats spread all over the road and the adjacent cliffs. These goats were eating, fighting, succumbing to lust - anything they could do to stop traffic.
Never again did we pass 50 - obviously the work of a determined bunch of park rangers releasing at wild animals and bad drivers at critical moments.
The travel conspiracy emerged again last summer at Paris's Gare du Nord train station. On the last day of the month I spent backpacking (yes, very clich?(c)), my sister, Ali, and I stuck our packs in lockers at the station intending to spend the three hours we had until our Eurostar left for London by taking a last look at Paris and doing a little last-minute shopping.
We were exhausted, we were sick of traveling, and all we wanted to do was buy as many French pastries and bottles of alcohol for the Chunnel trip as our remaining francs would cover. No problem - until I realized the conspiracy was alive and well, and its orchestrators were determined to make my trip home as panic-stricken as possible.
The pastries were no problem. The booze was no problem. We even managed to grab a few boxes of Europe's single greatest consumer good, Kellogg's Extra cereal (granola with chocolate chunks. If you find it anywhere in America, please, please, let me know. eds5@acsu.buffalo.edu). Getting back to the train station was no problem. Getting on the train, though, was awful.
When we returned to the station, Ali and I went to retrieve our packs from the baggage lockers. Mine presented no difficulty, but somewhere along the way the slip of paper with Ali's combination had disappeared. Ten dollars and an hour later, we had missed train No. 1. Round one: Them.
So we sat around and wrote post cards, determined not to let Them get the best of us. We were getting on the next train, and would still have plenty of time to make our flight home. But as it came close to time for departure, our track was nowhere to be found. Somehow, no one had informed us that all international trains depart from a separate platform, one far away from the others and buffered by customs agents. Chance? I don't think so. Round two: Them.
But we could not be stopped, and finally found our way onto train No. 3, pastries, booze and all. Round three: us.
Back at school this year it got worse. The conspirators resorted to interrupting not only my vacation travel but the simple movement between my apartment and class. They have paid off or invaded the bodies of the North Campus shuttle drivers, who pull away from the Hadley Community Center each day as they see me approaching. No matter when I leave my apartment - early, late or perfectly on time - they are inevitably easing off the breaks, grinning as I chase that damn van before finally resigning myself to treading a frantic path across campus.
By now you may be saying to yourself, "This woman is nuts. She's taking a series of coincidences and stringing them into a conspiracy theory. Is this what my dollar per semester really buys?" And, had I not tried to go to Los Angeles for spring break two weeks ago, you might have been right. But in the Albany International Airport, at the counter of "Omega" Airlines, I received final confirmation that the truth behind travel mishaps is conspiracy rather than coincidence.
By 5:35 a.m. that Saturday I had been waiting in line for a 6:05 a.m. flight for quite a while. There were, of course, the 20 or so members of Union College's softball team blocking my way to the ticket counter, and I began to panic. With only half an hour before my flight was scheduled to depart, I would barely make it to the plane. So I jumped to the front of the line, determined not to let Them get the best of me, only to be told that ticketing closes half an hour prior to departure and that as it was now 5:38 a.m., I had missed the deadline by three minutes.
But, I knew I could fight back, even against such an intricately choreographed effort. I was on home territory, and I had my dad on backup. It only took 10 minutes of arguing and my dad being booted from the ticket counter to get me on a stand-by flight leaving at 7:50 p.m. From there I would fly to Atlanta, where I would try for a standby flight to L.A. Granted, it would mean leaving all the clothes and toiletries I had for the entire weak in Omega's clutches and going home for 12 hours, but I was not to be deterred. The travel conspiracy could delay me, seemingly inevitably, but they could never stop me.
Until that day. I returned to the airport at 6 p.m. after four phone calls to Omega customer service representatives who ranged from sympathetic but unhelpful to nearly hostile - all obviously on the conspirators' payroll just like those shuttle drivers. I stood in line. I made it to the ticket counter. I was told the 7:50 flight I was put on standby for was a morning, not an evening flight as she had repeatedly told me. The agent had duped me! They finally got me!
Cunningly, they offered me a standby spot on the next day's 6 or 8 a.m. flights to Atlanta, for which I would at best 8th in line, and then 10th on the standby list from Atlanta to L.A. - for another $100, because I had "changed my date of travel." Lies, lies, lies! There was no way I would make it to L.A. before Monday, if I managed to get on a plane at all. They knew it, and finally, so did I: they had defeated me.
Now, all I can do is wonder when and where They'll strike next. Come back, shuttle bus, come back. .
