New City: New Man

If you are reading this and you are my mother, you are wondering about the hubby-potential of NYC. If you are reading this and you are not my mother, you may also be wondering about the guys up North. I'm happy to enlighten you.

I'll be honest and say I did not have the best dating luck during my few short months living in Atlanta. Apparently, cooking healthy and elaborate dinners at home, going for runs during the midday, and going home every other week are not the best way to meet guys. Who knew? Although an orthodontia student with no dance skills and even less game once told me I was beautiful, so we'll put that in the "win" pile. Anyways, upon moving to New York, I vowed, New City: New Man. Seems like a simple enough mantra. There are millions of guys in this city. Millions. And I'm awesome. So what could possibly go wrong?

A sneak peak of my Match profile

I started the same way any desperate middle-aged woman hip flirty twenty-something would- I signed up for Match.com. We have all seen the commercials. That adorable blonde Kindergarten teacher falls in love with some sweet guy. The commercial assures us that 1 in 5 relationships now start online. "It's totally normal and modern" I can spout off to my friends. Making a profile was easy enough. Put up a picture. Fill out a questionnaire. Describe who you are and who you want to be with. Easy peasy and now I'm one step closer to my Prince Charming.

It starts off like an explosion. Lots of likes, winks, personal messages, page views. I almost order all new hats... but then I take a closer look at who is providing all of this attention. Let me be honest, a lot of weirdos. I spent a good long while just sorting passed guys that were 19 or 40, guys that lived in New Jersey, guys that listed "World of Warcraft" under interests, guys who considered themselves atheists, and so on. That left me with a much smaller pool to work with. Blerg.

No worries. I pressed onward towards true love. I responded to a few guys via the Match.com personal messaging system to see if there were any sparks. After some vetting I took two conversations "off line." I met Tim (he called himself Timmy, but since he was 25, I refused to indulge him in the nickname). He picked me up from work and then asked where we should go. I thought to myself, "So you invite me out for drinks with absolutely no plan. Good God." So we wander into a nearby bar. I order wine and he orders beer. We both get carded. Come on, I think, but then I think a little more, and boy does he look young. We get to talking, and the conversation is fine. I learn he is close with his family. Like super close. Like still lives at home, has no plans or desire to move out, and hopes to settle in Connecticut forever. Hmm, considering I just moved half way across the country to live in a giant bustling city, this guy and I may have different ideas for the future. I escape after one drink with a forced hug and an awkward kiss on the cheek. Okay, so first "frog" of NYC - check.

Don't worry, I had another Match.com date days later. And it went much better. We talked for hours over coffee (hot chocolate for me, actually) and agreed to see each other again. We had great conversations and enjoyed each other's company. We even went out on Valentine's Day. I think we went out a total of seven times, but I kept anticipating a "click" that never happened. We made sense on paper and didn't not like each other. My sister might have told you I ended it because he was "too nice" for me. I would argue it was because we didn't quite click. But the truth may actually be that I couldn't be with a guy that tried to order a veggie burger. How completely offensive!

Since cooling on Match.com, there was a bit of a lull in my dating life. That all changed one afternoon in a taxi. It was summer in the city, also known as boiling hot. I jumped in a cab on my way across town. The windows were all down but the traffic was so slow there was no breeze to be felt. Moments later the driver rolled up the windows and blasted the AC.  What a welcome relief! Then he explained himself. "I turned on the AC because I want you to be cool, but also because you smell so nice I wanted to roll the windows up." ... And that's when I decided to join Hinge.

The Horrifying Roommate Experience

I've already mentioned how much I adore my roommates. They're kind, funny, smart, and put up with me! What more could a girl ask for! So the title of the post may seem odd, even shocking. I should first point out the difference between a "horrifying roommate" and a "horrifying roommate experience." This post is about a particular moment in our lives as roommates, which honestly says more about me than anyone else. If you know me, you will understand exactly how this made me crazy.

Ellie, Lindsay, and I coexist quite well. Despite few square feet, only semi-opaque glass doors, and a solitary bathroom, we make it work. It'd even say we thrive. This particular post relates to the bathroom. We love our glass tiles and rain shower. We love our three separate medicine cabinets. We love the corner nook that provides a little extra storage space. And while we may not love it, we are very good at sharing the bathroom. We have dissimilar shower schedules, and we all leave for work at slightly different times, meaning there's rarely a line to use the bathroom.

So sharing is not the issue. What I should say, is that a lack of sharing is not the issue. In this case, sharing is exactly the issue.

I should mention that Ellie has been away for two weeks for work. The apartment was rather quiet without her, but that's a separate story. She finally returned late Saturday night. After catching up for a while she announced that she needed a shower. A feeling I can completely identify with; no one wants to go to sleep smelling like airplane. So she disappeared into the bathroom while I continued to Pinterest (not one of my wilder NYC Saturday nights).

She emerged some time later with a confession. She had taken her toothbrush into the shower before realizing she had grabbed mine by mistake. Ellie assured me that she realized her mistake and switched toothbrushes before it was too late, but mine was wet. Okay, I thought, this is fine. It’s just wet. It has not been in her mouth. So I brushed my teeth as if everything were normal, and then I went to bed.

Fast forward to the next morning. I wake up, bright-eyed and ready for bagels! Of course before we head to Essa for our Sunday bagel tradition, I go into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I notice my toothbrush in the opposite side of the toothbrush holder. Oh good gracious, what is happening, I think with panic. “Ellie,” I say with temerity while peaking my head out of the bathroom. “Which toothbrush is yours?”

Yes, I am sure you’ve guessed it by now. Ellie and I have been using the same toothbrush. And we have no idea for how long. My heart is racing. Oh dear God, why do bad things happen to good people?! I am very good (okay, mostly good) at sharing. You are welcome to borrow just about anything from me. Phone charger? Sure! Little black dress? Why not! Cab fare? Of course! But I draw the line at personal products. Please keep your hands off of my deodorant, razor, and especially my toothbrush!

But it gets worse.

I come to the realization that not only have I been sharing a toothbrush with my roommate, but Ellie’s boy friend shares a toothbrush with Ellie. So by the transitive property, I’ve been sharing a toothbrush with a strange man! I tried to play it cool. Just keep breathing, Emily; you can do this, I thought. Just laugh it off.

But we all know that at the very first opportunity, I ran across the street to the Walgreens and bought a two pack of the ugliest toothbrushes I could find. No chance we will mix our toothbrushes up now!

Is this the biggest size you have?

While the title of this post may imply a trip to Bloomingdale's, in which I, in all sincerity, ask the saleswoman, "Where are the clothes made for people who are familiar with carbs and who don't shy away from butter?" However, this post is about another kind of shopping in New York - grocery shopping.

I love to cook. Okay, I love to eat, so I have learned to love to cook. As you may already know, the first step to cooking is usually creating a list and going to the grocery store. You might think this would be a pretty universal errand across the country. After all, how different can grocery shopping be from one place to another - it is just going to a store, picking up food, and checking out. Right? Wrong.

From the moment my first trip to the grocery began in New York, I knew it would be different. I was used to driving to the grocery, grabbing my reusable bags from the trunk, retrieving a cart, and wandering the expanse of Publix with a grocery list as long as a short essay that contained everything I would need to cook all week long. In New York, you have to be savvier.

First of all, I do not have a car, so I have to be prepared to carry what I buy home. I find myself eying a twelve pack of Diet Coke, and then thinking, "No way will I carry that! I guess I am drinking tap water again this week." I am also more likely to go to the store multiple times in one week, so that I spread out what I have to carry. It only took one walk home during which I thought both arms would be ripped out of the sockets and an unfeminine bead of sweat developed on my brow despite the frigid temperature to convince me that multiple trips to the store are best.

Secondly, New York grocery stores are constructed so that you buy less at a time. When I first walked into the store I looked around for a cart like a birdwatcher might look for an ivory-billed woodpecker. In other words, I looked and I looked but was pretty convinced carts had gone extinct, at least up North. I grabbed a basket instead, which may be to force customers to only buy what they can carry. I have eventually found a cart in a grocery store, although it's not a full sized cart like I would expect.

It fits in my palm. My palm!!

Lastly, on top of the smallness of the store itself and the carts, even the food in New York City's grocery stores is smaller! I came across sizes of food staples that I had no idea existed! Did you know they still sell Coke in six packs up here? And they sell Aunt Jemima's syrup in a size that can only be described as travel-sized. Not to mention mayonnaise the size of a can of baby food, which would not get my family through one meal of BLTs in the summer. The true kicker though, was when I scanned the store for Velveeta. The delicious and truly American pasteurized cheese product was not displayed proudly like at the grocery in Memphis, but rather placed unlovingly in a corner of the dairy section. Did the Manhattan grocer even realize that this cheddar-y gift does not need to be refrigerated? I sought to rescue the Velveeta from the dairy case, and was flabbergasted by the teeny-tiny specimen I held in my hand. I was accustomed to Velveeta that was three times the size of this one! I shook my head at the tragedy of tiny Velveeta but left the store and happily dumped the whole thing into my chicken casserole. Boy, was it delicious!


As I get used to grocery shopping in New York City, I am also embracing a different kind of Manhattan grocery shopping, known as delivery. For what this city lacks in American-sized groceries, it makes up for in the fact that nearly every restaurant on the island delivers anything and at anytime, and that is something I can get on board with!

The Suitcase Saga Continued

If you read my first couple of posts, you may be asking yourself if the Case of the Missing Suitcase was ever resolved. It’s not as easy as a yes or no answer, so let me tell you all about it.

I trusted Delta when they said that my suitcase was certainly among the piles at LaGuardia Airport and that once the piles dwindled to something more reasonable that they would easily be able to find it and return it. Perhaps I was a bit naïve. Daily, I called the help number on the brochure I had been given, and daily I was given vague answers. One day, I was told they found my suitcase! My heart jumped with excitement! I found out moments later that the agent had not found my bag, but that after a week or so, Delta starts repeating bag tracking numbers. She said if Delta was reusing the bag tracking number, it was probably time to give up hope of ever seeing my bag again. She directed me to the page of Delta’s website where I could file a claim.

NYC winters are even colder if you lose all your belongings.

Weeks had already passed since I had packed my suitcase when I tried to remember each individual item that was lost. Imagine trying to catalogue dozens of items from memory weeks after packing a suitcase. The Delta claim document also required the exact cost of the item, where it was purchased, and when. Let me assure you, that is super hard. I had items of clothing that were bought when I was in high school, and I have no idea how much they cost because my mom definitely bank rolled any and all high school shopping trips. I went about the process methodically and without much emotion, after all clothes and make up and shoes and so on can all be replaced.

After listing the work clothes that were gone, the casual clothes that were gone, and the workout clothes that were gone, I got to the subject of pajamas. And I lost it. I could not hold the tears back once I realized that my beloved Cow Pants were gone and gone for good. (Yes, Cow Pants is capitalized, because to me, those pants earned the status of a proper noun). These are the world’s most amazing pants. If Earth was about to explode and I could bring one item with me on a spaceship destined for safety, I would grab the Cow Pants without hesitation. They are priceless and irreplaceable. Literally. The company no longer makes adult pajamas and no amount of crash dieting will get me back into toddler sizes. So sitting on my bed in my New York City apartment, I mourned my Cow Pants. I fondly remembered the good times we’d had and the warmth they’d brought me. I thought of the full and happy life the Pants had lived. I didn’t even put them on my Delta claim, since trying to give them a dollar value would only cheapen them. I submitted the form and received a pop-up informing me that the form was successfully submitted and Delta would review it in the next few months to decide my reimbursement.

Understatement of the year

A few weeks later, I stood on a subway platform waiting for the L Train when my cell phone rang. It was an international number that I did not recognize. I almost hit “ignore” but for some reason answered the call instead. A cheery voice said, “Good morning! This is Jennifer from Delta Montreal. Is this Miss Howe?” I answered affirmatively, and she went on, “Did you recently lose a piece of baggage while traveling to New York, LaGuardia.” I answered yes again, and my hands started to shake. I did not want to let myself feel hope only to be disappointed again. Jennifer went on, “We have located your bag here in Montreal and are happy to send it to New York once you confirm an address for delivery.” Still unsure, I asked, “Montreal, Canada?” Yes, she confirmed. I have never been to Canada but apparently my bag wanted to see America’s hat! I was so delighted that my belongings were coming back! I quickly gave the woman my work address (no doorman at home means no daytime deliveries).

Twenty-seven hours later (And 6 weeks and 27 hours after my first flight), my black Vera Bradley suitcase arrived for her Carnegie Hall debut. All day I was smiling from ear to ear and giggling at every turn. The bag felt lighter when I rolled it to my cubicle, but perhaps I had just gotten stronger, I told myself. That evening at home, I inspected the bag and its contents. It had felt lighter because about half its contents had vanished. All of the items that were once neatly folded in categories were now balled up with no rhyme or reason. Someone in Memphis, or Cincinnati, or Indianapolis, or New York, or Montreal had rummaged through my bag and taken anything that seemed to have value. What idiots they were though! They left my Cow Pants safe and sound!

Reunited and it feels soooo good!!!

Today on the Subway 2

Are you dying to know what else I've seen on the subway since moving to New York? Then this post is for you!

Today on the subway, I could hear a young boy laughing but I couldn't see him on the crowded morning train. Then I spotted him. He was probably only two or three years old and was as towheaded as it gets. He was against the back of the train car, sitting on his father's briefcase. It was a perfectly sized seat for the tot. And the boost made him just tall enough for his dad's hand to rest on top of his head as he stood there. The boy laughed again when his dad messed up his hair, but then the dad sweetly patted the hairs back into place. I'm sure as to not drop the boy off at daycare looking like a ragamuffin! It was such a sweet scene. Most suit-clad adults on the subway are too busy playing Candy Crush on their iPhones or reading the newspaper to interact with anyone on the train. I could tell by watching them for just a few stops that this father and son enjoyed their commute together more than anyone else on the train.

Roommate Wanted: No Freaks or Serial Killers

One of my big fears in moving to New York City was finding a roommate. I knew I wanted to avoid living alone if at all possible, but all my college friends moved to the city immediately after graduation and had secured roommates six months earlier.

Hypothetical Movie Poster

I was terrified to do the whole Craiglist thing to find a roommate. Just thinking about it made me picture my life turned into a Lifetime Movie posthumously. It would probably be called, Dead Before Her Time: Emily Howe's Story or maybe Dead in the Big Apple: The Emily Howe Story. The TV commercial would probably go something like this - *Happy Music* Voice Over: "Emily was a happy, bright young woman who trusted easily and made new friends effortlessly" *Dramatic Music* Voice Over continues: "Until one day she trusted the wrong roommate" Followed by the image of a blood stained New York apartment. Then the title flashes across the screen and everyone rushes to add it to their DVRs.


So Craiglist wasn't really an option in my book. I needed to find a friend, or a friend-of-a-friend that could be vouched for, or I would have to live alone. As luck would have it, my friend Gracie's boyfriend's friend from growing up was on the hunt for a roommate. Sure, she did not exactly qualify as a friend, but I was promised she was not a murderer, thief, or drug addict (Clearly, my standards are ridiculously high for a roommate).

Lindsey was in the market for a third roommate to join her and her college roommate, Ellie. After Gracie connected us, Lindsey and I got drinks on a Thursday after work. Later we both described it as the perfect first date. We just knew it was a good fit! That weekend I met Ellie, and we looked all over creation (AKA about half of Manhattan) for an apartment. I came to New York with the understanding that you get less bang for your buck in the city, but I did not truly understand the reality of that until we had seen a handful of apartments.

Honestly, I started to panic. "My bed will not even fit in here," I said. Lindsey and Ellie brushed off my comment saying that "Rooms always seem smaller when there isn't any furniture in them." I wanted to respond, "No, seriously, you guys do not understand. I have Atlanta-sized furniture that I must fit into a New York-sized apartment." But I did not want to mess with my delicate friendship with these two girls. So instead I responded, "Let's keep looking." Sunday afternoon we inched our budget a bit higher to see one last place.

All moved in! Sort of...
Look! Exposed brick!

We got to the street, approached the apartment, opened the door to 1A, and I breathed a sigh of relief. This could maybe work. I think my furniture could fit. Mostly at least. Oooh exposed brick! A renovated bathroom! A tiny, but upgraded kitchen! With a wine fridge! I took a video and sent it to Blake, my born-and-raised New Yorker friend who would certainly know what to say {She is also another friend that let me sleep in her living room for a while. What a dear!}. Like a flash of lightening she texted back, "OMG! Take it! Take it now!" So with the blessing of a real New Yorker (and a few phone calls made to our parents) we made our way to the leasing office.

Applying to rent an apartment in the city is much more serious and involved than anywhere else. The long and short of the requirements turned out to be salaries over $60K a year (or in my case a guarantor), $15,000 upfront, a background check, and a bunch of signatures. Somewhere along the way I may have signed my soul over to the New York real estate gods. Who knows for sure.

A little more than a week later we moved in. Although I am not sure you could call what I did "moving in." I took a cab from Blake's place with her air-mattress in one hand, my little suitcase in the other, and a Medium Brown Bag from Bloomingdale's slung across my shoulder. It was a pathetic little set up in the beginning, but it was mine so it was all okay.

Today on the Subway 1

Today on the subway
Since moving to New York City I have been amazed with the number of people. More than the sheer number of people, I have been amazed by how many different kinds of people there are. It is fascinating to watch! If you like to people watch, then we could probably be great friends. I have discovered that the subway is the BEST place to people watch! Why do people read books, play Candy Crush, or sleep when there is such great entertainment right in front of them?! Since we can't all ride the subway together and people watch as a team, I have decided to do a series in this blog about what I see on the subway. What I see ranges from sweet to interesting, funny to bizarre, and I hope you will be as charmed and entertained by my subway rides as I am. And now for the first "Today in the Subway:"

Today in the subway a woman sat down on the N train next to me. She was wearing a puffy black coat with a hood. She was an older woman and appeared Caucasian. She pulled something out of her bag and then her glasses out of her front pocket. I glanced over to see what she was reading, because, yes, I am that nosy. It was a menu! I laminated, bi-fold, picture-filled menu! She just quietly read her menu for at least three stops. I tried to see the name of the restaurant but could not lean that far without being totally obvious. I did see some Hebrew letters on the front, and the menu seemed like a kosher deli-type establishment. I have seen people read books, magazines, newspapers, even a "Vietnamese in a Flash" manual, but never before have I seen a passenger read a menu on the train!

Hit the Ground Running

Post written 2/13/14
Where to begin... I guess where I left off. When I arrived in New York late on Tuesday, January 7th, I wanted to get my bags, get in my black car, and crash at Gracie's apartment as quickly as possible {Gracie = friend from college & sweet angel that let me crash on her couch} . I thought that with all I had been through in the previous 48 hours, that I deserved an easy baggage claim and drive into the city. But, no, the fun was still only beginning.

If I thought the baggage claim in Indianapolis was a mess, then there were not words strong enough to describe the mess at LaGuardia. I was not directed to a carousel to pick  and up my bags, but rather told to "start looking" as an agent gestured to rows of hundreds of bags, which filled the entire room. If you know me at all, you know disorganization (especially by a business) is something I loathe. Needless to say, Delta was doing nothing to get on my good side. After hours of searching, waiting twice in the customer service line, and growing increasingly hungry and grumpy, I was forced to leave LaGuardia with only one of my two checked bags.

The baggage agent helped me file a lost bag claim, and I told her I had just moved to the city. She asked how long I had lived here and I shrugged, "A couple hours, I guess." She apologized for the poor welcome to New York City and assured me that my other bag was likely just hidden in the chaos.

With a heavy heart I headed to Gracie's. I started to think, What am I doing? I lost the bigger of my bags and was now in a new city with no clothes, no make up, and no home of my own. What if I had made a terrible mistake? What if I wasn't cut out for city life? What if this horrible first few days was just the start of my misery? I pushed those thoughts right out of my head. There was no room for doubt or hesitations.

Gracie and I at our favorite college bar

I got to Gracie's apartment, and moments later so did the Chinese food she'd ordered for me {like I said, a sweet angel}. We slept together in the living room of her small apartment: me on the air mattress and her on the couch. I did not know at the time how many more nights it would be before I slept in a real bed. That night I was too tired to be anxious for work, so I actually slept.

As you can imagine, my first day of work was a blur. Gracie lent me eyeliner and mascara. I had enough clothes in my small checked bag to construct a decent outfit. I took the train with Gracie, and she told me where to get off and how to get to work. I got off the train at 9am, thirty minutes before I had to be at work. Despite having been given directions, I got turned around and walked blocks, looong blocks, out of my way before realizing my error. So I ended up arriving at work at 9:25am. Still early, but cutting it close.

I spent the morning with HR, mostly filling out paperwork. I had to put down Gracie's address because I, of course, did not yet have a place of my own. (Months later, she still occasionally gets a piece of my mail). Then I went up to the 8th floor. I saw my boss and met the temp who had been filling my position since October. Her name was Stephanie. She was an aspiring actress/comedian who was attemping to pay the bills. A classic New York story - so classic I couldn't make it up! Even more classic New York, she had moved up North from a small town in the South... in Kentucky...outside of Paducah... in the small town of Mayfield. My jaw dropped. She was from the same town as my dad. We were instantly bonded! If the travel/luggage issues were a sign that I should not have moved to New York, then certainly this was a sign indicating the exact opposite!

The first time I ever logged on to my new email account, I had dozens of unread emails already waiting for me. Little did I know that that would be the fewest unread messages in my inbox ever. I met so many people that first day and learned so much, it was impossible to absorb it all but I did my best. At the end of the day a Ring Pop candy sat on my desk with a Post-It Note reading, "Welcome to Carnegie Hall! Xoxo Caroline." The bubbly, South Carolinian at the desk across from me had not forgotten me, even if I initially could not tell you her name. I already felt a bit like I belonged.

The days continued like clockwork, each hour marked by a new task or assignment. In those early days I realized how little I know about not only development, but about working in general. Is so-and-so a trustee? How do I Fedex something? What is our donor database? How do I transfer a call? I'd like to think I learned quickly, but I might be a biased judge of that. Regardless, I was happy my New York adventure had begun!

Welcome to New York City... or at least Indianapolis

The new year is bringing lots of changes to my life - most notably a new city and a new job! I am just thrilled to be employed... I am also slightly terrified. I have never worked full time and have not even technically worked in this field (development at a nonprofit). Plus, I am moving to New York City. Yes, I know I have lived in the city before, but never on my own and never on a budget! Making the move more challenging is the fact that I am moving without a place to live. I am staying with friends temporarily, and will hopefully have my own place soon. I am having drinks with a friend of a friend (more specifically the friend of a friend's boyfriend) on Wednesday, with the hope that we may live together. I hope this works out - I want to live with someone both for the company and the financial benefits. Since I am moving to NYC from Memphis, TN, by way of Atlanta, I have been spoiled by a very different real estate market! An excess of 1,200 square feet, granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, outdoor space, walk-in closets, and so on may all be distant memories when I move to Manhattan. In Manhattan I imagine I will pay double to pick one of the above amenities!

Today is Monday, January 6th 2014. Monday? Shouldn't I be at work? Yes, and yes. However, instead of being half way done with my first day of work, I am stranded in the frozen tundra known as Indianapolis.

Let me back up. The family spent a beautiful week in Deer Valley, Utah skiing after the holidays. We got back to Memphis on Saturday night, and I had about 15 hours to turn things around to fly to New York on Sunday and to start my job on Monday. It was a bit tight but seemed doable. Then winter weather took over the East coast. My aunt in Connecticut uploaded a picture of her back yard with ten inches of fresh snow. Friends in New York were stuck there. Chicago all but turned its lights off and gave up. I prayed it would not affect my trip. I'm an optimist, after all. I went through security in Memphis without a hitch and was relieved to see my flight to Cincinnati was on time. I sat down at my gate and ate two, yes exactly two, Ritz mini crackers with cheese. Then my phone rang. It was my mom - my second flight (from Cincinnati to New York) was cancelled. I went to the gate agent and then the Delta Customer Service desk. All flights to New York were cancelled or already booked solid. The agent handed me my new boarding passes. For flights leaving the next day and connecting through Indianapolis. My eyes welled with tears as I walked through the terminal to baggage claim. I did not get my bags, but my Dad was there to pick me up.

I spent the rest of that Sunday moping around the house and watching HGTV. Why I didn't use this extra time to get my nails done, I will never know. I got up early Monday morning to begin my journey again. I flew at 9am to Indianapolis. When we landed and arrived at the jet bridge, I realized there was an issue. The jet bridge was frozen in place and could not meet the plane. We were not allowed to disembark on foot because the ground was icy and dangerous. Forty minutes later a crew finally wiggled the jet bridge free. But by that time I suspected chances were not good for my next flight. Indeed, it had been cancelled.

Beautiful Indianapolis!

It was -11 degrees when we landed. You saw that right, -11 degrees, with a windchill colder than -25. Lord, what had I gotten myself into! I cannot imagine why Delta Airlines sent me to such a nonfunctional tundra. The airport itself was a ghost town. Most of the shops and restaurants were closed; the "Departures" board was red with cancellations. I learned that all the roads in Indianapolis were closed, which had kept crew, workers, etc. from making it to the airport. I was re-booked on a 3:00pm flight to New York. I ate lunch and walked around. My mom suggested I book a hotel room in Indianapolis, just in case. I was reluctant to admit that I would likely be in this place overnight. I had a job and a new life to get to, how could I stay in Indianapolis?

At 2:05pm, when my 3:00pm flight was cancelled (Surprise, surprise), I was glad I had already booked a room. I walked through baggage claim, the second time in two days to walk by the conveyor belts of baggage claim and leave empty handed. Thank goodness I bought a T-shirt and toothbrush before leaving the terminal. I rode the shuttle two miles to the Crowne Plaza Hotel. The trip took thirty minutes thanks to roads that were little more than sheets of ice. A kind Irishman rode the shuttle too. I bet he won't plan another trip to the states in January!

The hotel was comfortable and even had room service! Even with the heat blasting the room was chilly. The windchill temperature had dropped to an unimaginable -35 degrees. I guess when it is that cold, no amount of heat can keep all the cold out. I slept as far from the window as possible. It was nice to get a solid night's sleep, especially since it was my last night in a real bed for a while (hello air mattresses!). The next morning I took a hot shower, ate the PB&J I had in my purse (the lunch I had packed for my first day of work), and checked out of the hotel.

I rode the shuttle back to the airport. This time it was jammed full of hopeful travelers planning to leave that day. I checked in at 12:10pm for my 3:00pm flight and was then directed downstairs to check on my luggage. When the baggage claim became visible I nearly deflated. It was a, excuse my French, clusterf*ck of chaos. Bags were lined all around and stacked in piles. Confused and frustrated looking passengers combed through the area trying to spot their bags. A woman who was promised by Delta in Detroit that her bag would be there, cried and begged an agent for information unknown. I saw the sign marked "Baggage Services" and then I saw the line. It stretched across the room. I walked to the end of the line where a friendly man greeted me saying, "Welcome to the back of the line!"

Even though everyone was stressed and annoyed, we quickly made the best of the long line. We swapped stories, vying for whose experience was the most miserable. Maybe I won, but then again it could have been a million-way tie among everyone. The man behind me had been wearing the same clothes since Sunday (me too). The young woman in front of me had a long drive ahead of her. A man had been asked to check his bag after boarding a flight in Atlanta to save room, now he did not know where the bag had gone.

An hour later I made it to the front of the line. The woman behind the counter was confused by the many changes to my itinerary.
"So when were you in Cincinnati?"
"Never."
"Are your bags in Indianapolis?"
"I have no idea"
"Where should your bags be?"
"New York, I guess"
Eventually, we got on the same page, and she tracked my bags. Both suitcases were already in New York, she informed me. Never had I ever been so jealous of luggage before!

At security, the line was moving at lightening speed. I discovered they were treating everyone as if they were TSA Pre-Checked. I left my laptop in my bag and kept my boots on. The whole security process took less than 5 minutes. Thank God for small blessings, I suppose!

Once in the terminal I had a couple of hours to spare. I got a smoothie, played on my phone, made some phone calls, wrote this, anything to make the time go by. Meanwhile, I compulsively hit "refresh" on the delta.com page on my phone. I felt relief each time it showed "On Time" in happy green letters. Eventually the flight was delayed because they switched our plane, but only a short delay of twenty minutes or so. Delayed I could handle; cancelled I could not. I could breathe deep when they announced Pre-Boarding for Delta flight 7318 to New York, LaGuardia. I think that means I have made it! New life, new career, new everything - here I come! Only two days late and with quite a story to tell!