California Dreamin’ Day 1 – Part One – “An Actor Prepares.” – Uta Hagen

Philadelphia International leaves some things to be desired, none the least of which is effective signage. Trying to locate long term economy parking by following the left lane directional signs is not very practical when the actual exit ramp for it is from the far right lane. It is also not a very walkable environment either, as I discovered at 4 in the morning, when parking shuttles don’t run until 5 (damn you, Jen Urbano for booking the first flight of the day – and thank you too), and you have to walk 8 terminals south to get to your departing gate. Even taxi drivers are not permitted to pick up in areas not relegated to them personally. If only the driver could’ve explained that to me in something other than his native language, which clearly was NOT English.
So, I trudged. A lot, from the start. In the snow. California was calling.
My bag was three pounds overweight (not from overpacking, but from packing damp clothes that my ghetto clothes dryer could not bring itself to finish without another 50 cents; I did not have that kind of time). At $30 a pound, it adds up; but the league of foreigners behind me in the baggage check line also did not leave me the option to unpack anything without further delaying my progress. Again, I trudged on. But not before waiting an additional 10 minutes for the baggage clerk to find change. What kind of place opens up without appropriately stocked till drawers??? Sheesh.
Security was, remarkably, uneventful for me. The poor lad in front of me was deemed a random check, so luckily I was delayed “just enough” by the baggage clerk, so I must now thank her. They did unpack my carry-on because there was a CD/DVD in my laptop. I don’t know why that was considered a security threat; I was just hoping it wasn’t porn. To my relief, it was just an old worn- out Yanni album.
After a $4 (small, mind you) cup of coffee, I boarded, without incident, the first leg of my flight – a fully booked 757. Before long, we were airborne to Atlanta. I got a small tear in my eye knowing this was the journey I was meant to be on, and that not too much longer from now, I would be taking this same flight again, more permanently, and that tugged at my heart for a moment. I drifted off to the first in a series of restless and uncomfortable sleeps.
I awoke on several occasions to the sound of a baby’s screaming behind me; I know it’s uncomfortable for babies to fly, the cabin pressure affects their little bodies differently. All I could think of was the story of Paul Lynde, who, legend has it, endured a similar flight back in the 1960s, and, when finally he had had enough, turned to the doting mother with the screaming child, “If you don’t shut that kid up I’m going to fuck it.” I showed a little more restraint. Before long, we landed in Atlanta.