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Haven’t Got the Foggiest Notion
Last week we were in Southampton, New York. Several mornings opened the day shrouded in fog. By mid morning it had burned off for the most part. But it reminded me of days in California. There are times when Los Angeles or San Francisco are nearly impossible to navigate because of the fog.
Years ago when I was at the University of California at Berkeley, I was preparing to go “home” for Christmas. At the time my father was working for an accounting firm in Las Vegas. So, Las Vegas was home for the season.
My father made the plane reservations for my trip. It must have been less expensive to fly with connections than to fly non-stop. At any rate my itinerary took me from San Francisco to Los Angeles, on to Phoenix and finally into Las Vegas. I didn’t mind. I was a kid and in those days flying was more upscale and fun.
However, in those days planes were less advanced than they are today and more affected by weather.
As the first flight put down in Los Angeles a thick, really thick, fog settled in over the area. The connecting flight was grounded. We waited a couple hours hoping the fog would lift. Eventually the airline decided to bus us over to Ontario, California 60 miles away where the sky was clear. Because of the fog by bus that was a trip of about two hours.
By the time we reached Ontario, the fog had enveloped the area. There was no visabilty. But, it had lifted in Los Angeles! Back on the bus we went and two hours later we pulled into Los Angeles International Airport, a very foggy airport. The fog had returned.
But, you know it, the fog had lifted at Ontario! Back on the bus we went and off to Ontario. When we got there two hours later it was again socked in.
By this time it was about 3 AM and we had shleppd around in the bus for six hours, longer than the flights were to have taken. The airline finally threw in the towel and put us up in a hotel and made plans to fly us out the next morning.
During this time and unbeknown to me, my father was in repeated contact with the airline agent in Las Vegas, asking:
Where is my young son?
My young son is flying by himself.
Has my young son eaten?
What is happening to him?
And so on.
The next day the fog was gone and we flew on to our destinations.
My father met me at the gate. He explained what had happened on his end and went on to say the agent had gotten the impression that I was a little boy. He had worried that the agent would be there to meet the plane and didn’t know what she would think when she saw me . . . 200 lbs plus, six-foot 1 inches. He went on to say, “I decided if she did meet the plane I would tell her . . . you are retarded.”
More to come
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