You would think I have never flown before. I am standing just inside Atlanta’s Hartsfield Airport without a clue as to what to do first, and feeling a bit flustered. It didn’t help that I was delayed coming into Atlanta because the road planners thought it’d be a good idea to narrow three lanes down to one. I already have my computer-printed boarding pass safely tucked into my bookbag along with my little maps of the airport so I can be sure I know where I’m going. I like to be sure of where I’m going, but no luck today. I resign myself to asking the Delta help-person, who points to the little computer kiosks and tells me to check my bag.
There’s a scanner next to the kiosk to scan my boarding pass, so I hold it under the little red light so the computer can greet me by name. “Hello, Carrie, how many people would you like to check in today? How many bags are you checking? Thank you for flying Delta! Please don’t let them take away my pension!” I enter in all my information — “Thank you!” goes the computer — then nothing happens. Eh? Ohhkay . . . I attempt to re-login and try again but the computer informs me that I have already checked my bag. Right. I look up to find the Delta help-person again when I hear people behind the counter calling my name. Ohh, so that’s where I check my bag. Sheesh, way to hang up informative signs, Delta.
As I hand my bag over to the bag guy, I ask him where I go next. “That way, around the corner,” he gestures, pointing vaguely to my right. I find my way around the corner — vaguely — and finally come upon something I recognize: the food area. At least I remember that much. I sit down briefly to consult one of my maps — somewhere around here is a currency exchange, and I want my souvenir. I see it on the map but am not seeing it where it oughta be, and the mass of people isn’t helping. I know there’s another exchange at the E terminal where I’m headed, so I decide to give up and head that way.
As I’m riding on the underground train to Terminal E, the airport manages to confuse more people by announcing Terminal A as, “Terminal D. We are now arriving at Terminal D. Terminal D,” while the signage in the tunnel is plastered with ‘A’s. Stupid, alphabetically-challenged train.
I arrive at “Terminal E, Terminal E” and quickly indulge myself with a cheap pizza lunch while studying my map. Ahh, the currency exchange is right around the corner, and . . . there it is! Souvenir time! I come up to the counter and ask, “How many euros will $30 get me?” with a big grin on my face.
Five minutes later I head to Gate E05 — notice the 0 — while studying my €20. I got a €10 note and two €5 notes; all three with very shiny holographic striping, and it only cost me $33.70 including a $5.50 exchange fee. Rock.
I walk up to Gate E05, whose signage is actually E5 and is advertised as heading to Munich. Oooooh. This sinks in right as I hear a guy explaining to a captain, “. . . Las Vegas,” while pointing at a ticket. Ahh, there seem to be boarding pass errors. I join the group, which turn out to be wonderfully-accented British people heading to Las Vegas for “a bit o’ gamblin’.” The helpful captain finds out we are actually supposed to be at Gate E15 and walks us all the way there. Nice dude, that. Now that I’m finally where I am supposed to be, I sit down with my euros and wait.
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Some hours later we land in Las Vegas, a shiny town in the middle of nowhere. I disembark, ready to get lost again, but this time I’ve got a cohort: a fellow conference attendee from FSU who was behind me on the plane. Thankfully, we find our way out of the airport relatively unscathed. I think it’s easier to get out of an airport than it is to get in. We find a bus that drops us off at our designated hotel and casino along with quite a few more conference people. Ahh, we made it; I shall not be lost again!
My jubilation is quickly shattered fifteen minutes later. I wander aimlessly from one side of the hotel to the other, trying in vain to find the mythical elevator that will take me to my hotel room. The check-in guy tells me to go “that way” while vaguely pointing to my left, but “that way” leads me down to the casino floor where old people are spending their grandchildrens’ inheritance. I feel a bit out of my comfort zone lugging a backpack and rolling a suitcase behind me, looking like the exasperated Podunk Girl from Alabama. I am amazed by the lack of “you can find your room here, dummy” signage compared with the ostentatious guides that lead you right into the slot machines, ready to eat your $20s.
I concede defeat and make my way to the Tickets booth to tell my tale of woe to the ticket-man. He has a New Yorkish accent and is very kind. He first tells me what the first guy said: you go “that way,” and he points, vaguely. But then he gives me the coveted information: after you go “that way,” there is a hidden hallway. Follow that and it’ll lead you right to it.
I go back from whence I came — “that way” — and . . . lo, and behold . . . a hidden hallway! There are no signs whatsoever, and I follow it down until I reach my destiny: elevators!
Going up!
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I would tell you more tales of Las Vegas, but there are no tales to tell. Not any good ones, anyway. The city is very flashy; like a cruise ship but bigger and it doesn’t sway . . . unless there’s an earthquake. It is a city better narrated by pictures rather than words, so I suggest you go check out mine.
Recap: very pretty, very Epcot, very good photo opportunities, and I’m glad I got the chance to go, but give me London any day. There’s more history.
