Feb. 2

It was a bitterly cold winter day (what other sort is there?) and it was getting me down. Still having a lot of money from the little shooting debacle I decided to take a trip and relax a little. I know. Stupid. Especially under the circumstances.

I didn't dare take my lovely new car. It would be gone by the time I came back, having been either stolen or towed(which are really the same thing). The bus didn't seem a terribly attractive option, neither did the idea of a taxi. Plus it wouldn't do anything for my timing as there would be a couple of laps around the city before we actually headed to the airport. I instead got a rid with my friend Andy who still owed me a favour from a few years back.

To say the airport was crowded that day, would be an understatement along the lines of "Fransisco Franco wasn't crazy about elections." Luck must have been swinging a bit because I managed to get through the airport without any delays, my name coming up on any "no-fly" lists, strip searches or serious injuries. There was a bit of comedy at security when I showed the officer a bag of fluids and he asked,

"Is that all your fluids?" I had to stifle a laugh and had resisted to say something about having to go for dinner and movie first. But as I heard the door of the plane close and lock, a word flashed in bold, neon letter in my brian: CRASH

The wheels touched down on the runway with the plane still in one piece and I figured we were okay (I mean sure, there were still the gas tanks to worry about but what the heck). It wasn't until the pilot came on and made the announcement that reality, as I knew it, reasserted itself. The flight I had boarded. The one headed for Maui, Hawaii, landed in Malawi, Africa. It was sixteen hours before the mistake was on its way to being corrected. The airline felt so darn bad about the mistake they refunded the ticket fares for all the passengers, along with a free trip anywhere in the world.