Re-LAX

It was time for vacation. I get one every decade or so. Whereas I felt that the local playground would make for a relaxing getaway, my wife Yahaira insisted on flying across the country to visit family.

It had been a while since I boarded an airplane and longer yet since I had risen so early. I didn't even know they made a 5 a.m.

The shuttle driver arrived angry, and who could blame him. Have you ever driven someone to the airport all day long? He was further vexed by the fact that our bags weighed 600 pounds (Yahaira is big on giving presents).

The sky was neither blue nor black but that surreal, in-between non-color. In this gloom, the driver peeled onto the street and our nightmare was underway.

I couldn't believe the number of people on the freeway at this hour. The ones who were awake drove under the influence of caffeine and vied for pole position. Could this many people be going on vacation?

Our chauffeur did what it took to stay in the race. He cut people off, nudged others out, and tailgated the slowpokes ahead of us. A sign on his dashboard read, If you're doing the speed limit, you're in the way.

The driver caught me staring at him in the rearview mirror and scrunched his eyes to say, "Don't evaluate me, 600-pound tourist boy."

I transferred my gaze out the window. Jeff Gordon was making his move.

My heart still thumping from 16 near-death experiences, we peeled into the LAX. The sun had barely peaked through those notorious arches, yet people bustled about like ants on escargot. Our shuttle progressed in stops and starts, 0 to 60 and back again. The driver slowed enough for us to tumble out, then disappeared beyond a cloud of smoke.

Taxicabs and buses burned by as we looked for an opening to TWA (turbulence warning anxiety). Yahaira, who is normally black, was very much not so. I motioned for her to go ahead while I took refuge behind our luggage.

We managed our way to the terminal -- interesting word, that -- where it was the same damn thing, only on foot. People of every pigment pushed and clawed at the person in line before them. A bum asked me for spare change. A missionary asked for my soul. So it goes.

Yahaira set a pick, allowing me to pull our bags through an opening. The whole world was abeep and abuzz. Someone ripped my ticket. Would I need that?

A voice crackled over the intercom: MPTUBLER TOCKDANGLE PHILADELPHIA POTRANTUM. That was us!

We writhed onto the plane, where space reached a new premium. Turns out that they had room for everyone's carry-on luggage but my own. I considered a cartoon about vultures with carrion luggage but only until the gentleman behind me poked my fanny with his umbrella.

The plane ride itself is mostly a blur, such was my terror: turbulence warning, windows shaking, coffee in lap, hanging on for life while I urinated...

My worst TWAs had been realized.

Ultimately, we landed on that other coast and sat in their traffic for a while. This rushing around business is not unique to L.A. Everyone is vying for pole position. Before you knew it, we were back on the shuttle to relive the nightmare in reverse.

I'm at home now, convalescing from the trip. And as much as I enjoy spending quality time with Yahaira fearing for our lives together, I really could use a vacation.