Kronikle Vol. 5, Issue 2: Travel Day, Part 2--Return of Roomie and the Church Lady Aftermath
After spending the afternoon trying to process the spiritual import of the church lady traffic jam with total strangers, I had settled my unsettled mind into Hyatt Regency hotel room 410, low to ground because of a politely worded email to the hotel a week prior, imploring assignment of a room near the ground because of the exigencies of an ominous medical “condition” that I actually do have that is called “I-don’t-want-to-live-my-life-waiting-on-the-elevatoritis”. My case is both chronic and severe.
Reflecting that I had not seen my comrade, my mate, my friend Roomie for over two years because of my carefree approach to paperwork, I sat by the window and waited enthusiastic-golden-retriever-style. Her bus finally pulled up and it started to feel like spying instead of waiting, plus it was taking forever for her to exit the bus and get in the hotel so I wandered around the room for a while, educating myself on what the Hyatt invites you to use for free and what, should you help yourself, will be charged to your room credit card (shampoo and coffee, free; spiriting away the towels and the coffeepot, not so free).
Unbeknownst to me, Roomie experienced her own personal, small-scale church lady traffic jam in the form of a wildly unlucky woman from west Texas that tripped exiting the bus, broke her wrist trying to brace her fall, and then went ahead and fell on her head, anyway. When Roomie shared all of this, empathetically rather than gossipy, I thought that a brain and a writing hand are the only two real requirements for this i-job (i=imaginary; wink, wink). I figured she would be like that kid that comes from a prestigious military family and gets injured in basic, all “what might it have been?” and regret, spending the night in Kentucky’s most reasonably priced Urgent Care and shipping out on the bus to return to West Texas in ignominy. Fortunately, I found out later she powered through. She showed up at our (or I showed up at her) table on one of my “contrition” mornings. I sat next to her. Genuinely friendly, she spoke in the hushed, bird-like twitter of a woman in an abusive relationship with the universe. Unfortunately, my senses had not quite coalesced into sentience so I understood not one word she shared with me. I nodded with interest and effort, raising my eyebrows in the hope my face suggested comprehension or something close enough to it and then I got out of there, fast. Hope it wasn’t a plea for help or anything.
My bad, unlucky West Texas, probably-church, lady; hope we meet again so I can make this right.
Roomie and I had no challenges in locating topics of conversation. The space of two years quickly morphed into something that felt like a long weekend of separation. Faced with several errands of the travel day variety, we set out first to the i-convention center to do several things: we had to pick up our nerd-tag that gains us entry to all the static sadness offered there, we had to find out what i-question we had been assigned, and we had to pick up the gift that makes us targets for that class of criminals that specializes in tourist dollars. Then we had to go back to the hotel that, earlier, served as the site where women of god offered definitive proof for the validity of chaos theory (ironic, huh?) because, the airplane industry having the discriminatory attitude it does about liquids, she hired a coyote for her water and Pepsi and he stayed there.
As we approached the hotel, I noted luggage, including a truly awesome number of hat boxes, strewn along the entire entrance. Bellhops just didn’t know what to do so they just stood there. It looked like a tiny tornado had targeted the Galt. Beyond the haberdasher’s detritus, a line of dejected travelers that stretched throughout the ample lobby and out into Kentucky waited patiently for their turn. I stood in awe of the obvious power of the church lady, avatar of chaos, handmaiden to anarchy. From now on, any elderly lady wearing a 44EEE bra, hats that would get murmurs at a royal wedding, and floral shift dress is going to get my FULL attention and whatever else she asks for.
Until next time, I remain…
Carrie the Red (stripe)
Reflecting that I had not seen my comrade, my mate, my friend Roomie for over two years because of my carefree approach to paperwork, I sat by the window and waited enthusiastic-golden-retriever-style. Her bus finally pulled up and it started to feel like spying instead of waiting, plus it was taking forever for her to exit the bus and get in the hotel so I wandered around the room for a while, educating myself on what the Hyatt invites you to use for free and what, should you help yourself, will be charged to your room credit card (shampoo and coffee, free; spiriting away the towels and the coffeepot, not so free).
Unbeknownst to me, Roomie experienced her own personal, small-scale church lady traffic jam in the form of a wildly unlucky woman from west Texas that tripped exiting the bus, broke her wrist trying to brace her fall, and then went ahead and fell on her head, anyway. When Roomie shared all of this, empathetically rather than gossipy, I thought that a brain and a writing hand are the only two real requirements for this i-job (i=imaginary; wink, wink). I figured she would be like that kid that comes from a prestigious military family and gets injured in basic, all “what might it have been?” and regret, spending the night in Kentucky’s most reasonably priced Urgent Care and shipping out on the bus to return to West Texas in ignominy. Fortunately, I found out later she powered through. She showed up at our (or I showed up at her) table on one of my “contrition” mornings. I sat next to her. Genuinely friendly, she spoke in the hushed, bird-like twitter of a woman in an abusive relationship with the universe. Unfortunately, my senses had not quite coalesced into sentience so I understood not one word she shared with me. I nodded with interest and effort, raising my eyebrows in the hope my face suggested comprehension or something close enough to it and then I got out of there, fast. Hope it wasn’t a plea for help or anything.
My bad, unlucky West Texas, probably-church, lady; hope we meet again so I can make this right.
Roomie and I had no challenges in locating topics of conversation. The space of two years quickly morphed into something that felt like a long weekend of separation. Faced with several errands of the travel day variety, we set out first to the i-convention center to do several things: we had to pick up our nerd-tag that gains us entry to all the static sadness offered there, we had to find out what i-question we had been assigned, and we had to pick up the gift that makes us targets for that class of criminals that specializes in tourist dollars. Then we had to go back to the hotel that, earlier, served as the site where women of god offered definitive proof for the validity of chaos theory (ironic, huh?) because, the airplane industry having the discriminatory attitude it does about liquids, she hired a coyote for her water and Pepsi and he stayed there.
As we approached the hotel, I noted luggage, including a truly awesome number of hat boxes, strewn along the entire entrance. Bellhops just didn’t know what to do so they just stood there. It looked like a tiny tornado had targeted the Galt. Beyond the haberdasher’s detritus, a line of dejected travelers that stretched throughout the ample lobby and out into Kentucky waited patiently for their turn. I stood in awe of the obvious power of the church lady, avatar of chaos, handmaiden to anarchy. From now on, any elderly lady wearing a 44EEE bra, hats that would get murmurs at a royal wedding, and floral shift dress is going to get my FULL attention and whatever else she asks for.
Until next time, I remain…
Carrie the Red (stripe)