After accepting the fact that I'd be chained to a desk in a gray office all summer long, I found solace in the fact that my boss brought up sending me away for training at some point. Oh, training: a week-long, 9 to 5 gig, where I'd be chained to a desk...but only in a different location. The idea made me happy.
First, they tried to send me to Columbia, South Carolina. "Awesome," I thought. I have a friend who lives in North Carolina, maybe he could drive down and meet me. No such luck. After I signed up for the course, I couldn't find a flight, so I was sent back to square one. All right, the next training was in Steubenville, Ohio. "Awesome," my boss tried to convince me, "The birthplace of Dean Martin!" As much as I have a particular affinity for the Rat Pack, the thought of Steubenville didn't thrill me. Then, I found out about the flight--New York to Boston to Pittsburg to..wait, a second. You mean I have to get off a plane in Pennsylvania then find a taxi driver who is willing to take me across state lines in a 50 mile cab ride to Ohio? I don't think so.
Luck suddenly hit me. The business trip gods suddenly smiled upon me. The next training session happened to be hosted by, get this, WEST PALM BEACH. It was a miracle. It was a twist of fate. It was my big break. Here I am stuck in an overly air conditioned, windowless office that has furniture duller than my high school charcoal drawing set, and my boss is offering to send me on a week long, all expense paid trip to West Palm Beach. I booked the flight, I booked the hotel, I even booked a taxi to take me from point a to point b. I packed my suitcase--half business clothes, half swimwear--and I was all set to embark on my first adventure since returning from South America in the spring.
Until I wasn't.
Yesterday, a few hours before I was about to leave, as I was jumping into the tub to take a pre-departure shower, my phone dinged, notifying me of an email. (I know what you're thinking, but yes, I'm one of those weirdos that brings her phone into the bathroom with her.) I opened the email from JetBlue and began to weep. My flight had been cancelled.
WHAT?
I called JetBlue. I called Delta. I called whoever flew from New York to Florida and wasn't a bird or a military aircraft. I Expedia-ed, Travelocity-ed, and Googled. I cried, I screamed, I begged. "Please help me! I need to get to Florida!" I pleaded with the agent on the other end of the line. Delta offered me a $500 one way ticked from LaGuardia to Fort Lauderdale. Not quite where I'm starting nor where I'm suppose to end up--and it leaves in 40 minutes? Sorry, can't do that. Newark to Boston to Orlando? Now that's really not where I'm starting, nor where I'm ending. The earliest you can get me to Palm Beach is Wednesday?! What do you mean you're all booked?! Who are these hoards of people and why are they getting to Palm Beach and I'm not?!
I texted my boss. Apologized to the poor soul(s) who had to deal with me on the phone, then began my mass cancelling. Called the hotel, cancel. The taxi, cancel. The insurance on my trip, cancel. I left voicemails for my training--sorry, the I have to cancel. My summer of no travel went to the summer of insanely awesome travel to summer of no travel once again. Sigh.
But at least today is Monday, which means I can live vicariously through Anthony Bourdain on the travel channel.
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