Yup, Friday sucked and then was amazing.
First, I am not in Alabama as I planned for this Saturday morning; instead, I flew to New Orleans and closed Fritzel’s European Jazz Club last night (12:30, not 2, as some of you think). Yes, I flew, buying tickets hours before my flight. I flew 90 minutes to Atlanta, had a longer layover than the flight, and then flew the other way for 90 minutes to reach New Orleans (NOLA)- Delta logic, but it worked. I ate lunch in one time zone, dinner in another, and back again to the same one in NOLA. But, dear reader, you are thinking, “Why?”
I rose at 6, and it did not feel awful early. I finished packing and rolled my bags down to breakfast at the Hampton Inn (I have given up on IHGs and am sticking with Hilton Hampton Inns when I can; so much better). I had their industrial breakfast and was happy to get a banana. I checked out and wrote the blog. My bus was at 10 and had already been moved from 9 to 10. Ugh!
I got there around 9 by taking a short Uber ride, and decided it was a good call. It was a longer walk than I thought, slightly uphill, and an industrial area slowly being replaced with expensive apartments. The place was as expected: a bit run-down, with most seats taken by people waiting to connect to their bus. I learned most had been there since 5 or so in the morning. I talked to the security guy and learned that my bus would be called. I noticed he was armed. This is not the Pacific Northwest. The crowd was folks with limited means, and some were troubled by the limited complexity of bus passage. The security guy handled it well, along with the limited Greyhound staff.
I learned that they had no terminals, phones, or access to any information on the bus. Our apps were our best chance for information, and the staff and security guard learned from customers that buses were late and why. Hmmm.
I soon learned the truth: there was no help here. This was a storage bin for people until something finally worked or people gave up and left. The only food came from vending machines with small bags of chips for $3, available only by credit card (most of this group didn’t have one). I later ate the chicken salad and crackers I carried during my stay in bus-hell. At 1, I began to believe that the two-hour delay was just a corporate game. Buses are never canceled; they just do not show, was my guess. I finally found a help number by searching their website and finally found a helpdesk number in their agreement of service. I called, and a woman soon strongly suggested I rebook for tomorrow, as the 6:30 time was uncertain. I agreed, did it myself online, and soon regretted it. 2:45AM Saturday, with a 5-ish arrival in Birmingham, just in time to get breakfast, shower, and check back out of my hotel.
A woman, stranded since 5, asked me for help. I tried to help by pulling up her information on my laptop, but she has a ticket with transfers. Nothing I could help with. I gave her a writing pad and pen, and she called the help desk. It went poorly. She can get the 2:45 or wait for the unlikely late bus, but there was no connection for her. She could not get home. Her family would have to drive out and rescue her once she reached Birmingham. I felt terrible for her and gave her $20 in cash for food. She thanked me. I felt terrible to leave these folks to the whims of an uncarry Greyhound.
I then went to Delta; Deborah was on the phone with me and texting me with flight and rental car options. There was no reason to head to Birmingham this late just to hopefully connect with Amtrak. I scheduled an expensive but not stupidly expensive flight to New Orleans (to make up for the really cheap flights I’d taken before). Today or Saturday was the same price, and there were seats left on today’s flights. Done. I had three hours.
I walked out, and a taxi was waiting for bus folks. He was thrilled to get an airport trip. We chatted while I canceled Amtrak ($40 of $45 back), Greyhound ($0, since I had rebooked, but at first they said $32; maybe it will show), and the hotel in Birmingham connected me with the manager, who forgave me the cost. Hilton again; I love those guys.
The taxi guy charged me $40 plus an $8 tip for the trip, the usual. I later noticed that I paid him, not the taxi company. I do not blame him.
I soon found myself at Delta, and for the first time, I had to check in and print my bag tags at the same time. Next, I checked in on the app and selected one bag. I could then do the bag drop, but nothing was working. I went to the desk and learned that all the machines were out of label paper, but the agent soon had everything in hand.
I had two hours and soon enjoyed security and chatting at a bar with BBQ and a pig on their sign. Sticking with the pig signs. The gentleman, his name now forgotten, was an underwater photographer and video guy for a large company. He runs drones and even ROVs to look for wrecks, dead people, and other lost things. He uses an ROV that can go to 1,000 feet, and that works for most things, I learned. He used to be a police diver. He showed me recent pictures of dolphins swimming while he tested some US Navy ROVs. I have his pen (with his information) in my bag (I am writing this in the lobby with breakfast), with his name on it.
After the interesting chat about shipwrecks and more gruesome finds, one I had read about and that he had located, he told me I got to my gate. I misbooked my hotel (they fixed it when I called; always use the Hilton website and have a membership) and waited for them to call my plane.
I had an aisle seat, and it was 90 mins. I watched a cooking show. The plane landed before the baking on the show was done.
In Atlanta, I walked the whole way, forgoing the train, and found a sandwich; I’m not sure if it was lunch, dinner, or extra. But I know it is always good to eat when you see it while traveling, since you never know what will happen. The place is a short walk from my gate. The staff was overwhelmed, but had that usual blank look of folks who have seen crowds come and go. This is Host Company-operated (once part of Marriott), and I knew my best option. When the waiter came to me, I ordered everything and paid early so there was no problem for them. My club sandwich was OK, but the fries were mushy because they were undercooked and rushed out. And I should not eat them anyway.
The 737 had no entertainment system, and I was in the front row of comfort, earning an upgrade for all the $$ I spent. There was endless legroom, but it was only a 90-minute trip, so not much time to enjoy it. No cooking show this time; I quickly downloaded a book on Kindle for $2.99 and loved it. An Accidental Alchemist is set in the Portland of twenty years ago, the one I started with, and it is a fun first-person magic fantasy. I laughed as I read, finally relaxing after this morning’s mess. I had coffee with a cookie.
The rest is the usual unload, find-your-bag, and get-a-taxi process. It was nice to be back and I am famialir with everything. I think this is my fourth trip to NOLA.
My hotel isn’t in the French Quarter unless you have a very liberal view of its size. It is north of Rampart and on Canal Street, the two boundaries of the French Quarter on this side. But still, they were happy to have me, and I soon was in a room and unpacked a tiny bit (it is a one-night stay). I then headed out and went twice the wrong way to the Quarter. But that is what iPhones are for. I soon turned around (twice) and found Bourbon Street. Fritzel’s European Jazz Club is all the way on the other side.
The crowd was young and multicultural, and, as I have noticed in Nashville, sort of lost, wandering the area. I was headed to Jazz, and it was almost forty minutes before I got to my target. It was half empty, and I was there for the last set. I found a seat and became one with NOLA again. I had the required drink for a set, a Stella, as the beer doesn’t get me drunk fast or cause leg cramps later.
The music and some of the players were familiar. I closed the place at 12:30 and will be back.
I walked back; the thugs were not out yet, and I arrived safely. Tired, it was a lot of steps for a hotel “in” the Quarter. It was hard to sleep with all that Jazz and Blues in my head. I had called Dondrea to wish her a happy birthday from Bourbon Street and sent her a short of the band for her to remember. She loved Fritzel’s.
I slept, and 7 came too soon.
Thanks for reading!
Alohawild (Michael Wild's) Website 