I almost cracked over the weekend. Not in the sense of wanting to end this trip and go home. Those feelings came and went during the first day, when I realized that I might have just made one of the stupidest decisions of my life. I was able to come to terms with that pretty quickly. This was more along the lines of cheating, which is far worse.
It happened Saturday in Jacksonville, Florida, when my wife Annabelle came to visit. Unlike me, Annabelle sleeps like a normal person, waking up when the dog barks or our malfunctioning thermostat chills the bedroom like a meat locker. Were the situation reversed and I was at home while she flew around the country, a meteor could easily slam into our apartment as I lay comatose in bed, and it would not disturb me in the slightest.
Anyway, it was a combination of a desire to find a normal place for her to sleep and the weariness of having spent the previous two nights in the baggage areas of JFK and Logan airports that nearly pushed me to the edge. As we left the secure area together, the names of nearby hotels beamed at me from the information desk. Queen-size beds! Twenty-four–hour pool and hot tub! Free internet!
It was awful, and in my semiconscious state, I began to weigh the risk of being found out with the rewards of sneaking off, backing it up with all sorts of justifications.
Annabelle, faithful as she is, stood back to let me decide for myself. I pondered the options as I led her out to the shuttle curb, watching the vans come and go, each offering a ride to an actual bed. It wasn't unlike the scene at the end of Lord of the Rings, where after nine grinding hours Elijah Wood's character stands at the edge of a volcano, ready to throw in the ring. He turns, looks at the camera, and you know exactly what he's thinking.
It wouldn't have been unforgivable, but something about it made it feel worse than deciding to call the whole thing off and go home. After all, you don't look down upon the guy who decides he's too tired and needs to drop out of the race in the same way as the one who takes a shortcut to the finish line. There's a Survivorman - Airport Edition feeling to this trip. Slipping off to a hotel on the weekend would be, in a word, cheating.
And so I put the ring back on and went inside to camp out in Jacksonville's tiny meditation room. The two benches inside looked like they were waiting for us to share. Confident that none of the night security guards would be motivated by a sudden urge to connect with the divine, I passed out without a second thought.
Jacksonville led into another layover in JFK followed by a trip to Buffalo, a town featured prominently in one of the most linguistically confusing sentences ever. Buffalo's smaller size lent itself to several opportunities for me to see what goes on behind the scenes at an airport, and I left with enough stories to last me a week. Those, however, will have to wait for another post. For now, I need to wrap this up. Having bounced back and forth between Florida and New York the past couple days, including a comfortable overnight in White Plains with two other All-You-Can-Jetters, I'll soon be boarding a plane to San Jose, California, with Portland, Oregon, coming up on Wednesday. See you out West.
Some other notes from the terminal: I've started to take pictures of my bed at night, and observant readers will notice there's been an addition to what I originally brought with me. While I'm remaining true to my commitment to stay in airports and keep my belongings to what you'd normally find in a carry-on, I needed to make an exception to keep from needing constant visits to a chiropractor. A friend brought me a camping pad in New York, and I'll pull that out once in a while when I'm confined to the floor. Normal carry-on? Probably not. Necessary if I'm going to actually finish this trip? Definitely.
Follow Brendan’s travels on Twitter @Flyered and check out his itinerary on Google Maps. You can also track his flights to San Jose, Long Beach and Portland through FlightAware.
*Photos: Brendan Ross / Wired.com
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