Escape from the Nerd Herd

Part 1: Humor and advice for business travel.

I spotted them on my way out of the hotel and ducked behind a plastic palm. I’d fallen in with this awkward flock of squawking birds at the same conference a year before, and still blush at the memory. You know the group. They gather in the lobby after the seminar, wearing nametags they forgot to remove (or, awful as it seems, they did not forget). Yes, you know them, and unless I miss my guess, you too have run with this herd.

Then as now, they wore Bermuda shorts, street shoes, and print shirts. Though it was evening, Bernie and the professor sported straw hats and aviator sunglasses. We were a techno-geek tour d’ force when we hit the streets that night. I remember toddlers tugging on sleeves and pointing, dogs dancing circles on their leashes, and panhandlers on park benches sitting up to bellow.

We rambled up a sidewalk and reversed direction at the street corner. Bernie and the professor were arguing about equilibrium reactions and missed the turnabout. They wandered up half a block, then spooked and scurried back. Our reunited group started across a street, but then the light changed, sending startled birds darting back and forth in traffic. There was cursing, honking, and pointing, and we wound up partitioned into four groups at each corner of the intersection. We reunited and went on, squabbling like ostriches in search of feeding grounds. Finally, Rebecca, our adventurous and nearsighted organizer, stuck her neck into a crowded tourist trap. More followed, and then we all rushed in to wait two hours for tables. We spent the evening dining on mediocre food and talking about all of the same things we’d discussed that day.

That outing culminated a three-day ordeal complete with all the indignities of business travel. Though calamitous, it taught me a few lessons. I would shield myself on future trips with headphones and low expectations. Headphones to repel the relentless waves of tip-seekers, hands extended like an army of zombies. Headphones to see me through eternal and excruciating seminars. Low expectations to keep me smiling through flight delays and gate changes, and the crushing humiliation of airport security. Then, at the end of the day, low expectations to lull me to sleep, and flush away worries of a hotel bed and its recent history.

Next time I’d wear a blanket of apathy against the outrages of travel. And if that didn’t work, I’d counter each assault with creative cynicism. Nothing would get to me. In the past I had played it safe and hung with the herd; planned every move in an effort to minimize the pain. The next trip would be different. The next time I’d break away and seek out adventure.

Part 2: Getting There

If you are like me, trouble begins the night before a trip. Fear of forgetting something essential drives me to pack channel lock pliers and pastry brushes, super glue and toenail clippers - all in a futile attempt to fend off the inevitable. After a few hours of anguish, the only thing my suitcase lacks is its own license plate. I leave the house prepared for automotive repairs, pedicures and part-time work in a bakery. When I look for my toothbrush the first night, however …

Not this time. I packed ten minutes before departure and left the rest to fate. Sure, I would later find myself wandering the unfamiliar streets of a strange city late at night searching for an all night convenience store, but I’d embrace that adventure.

An interstate commute lies between me the nearest airport. This drive began pleasantly - a journey through a mid-western pastoral landscape of ranches and cornfields. Traffic was light and mostly local except for an occasional livestock transport crammed full of cattle on their final voyage. It is a good idea to get ahead and upwind of these trucks, lest things get too pastoral. I passed one and saw dozens of beef cows cramped into fetid compartments. They turned dark chocolate eyes to me, full of pity, as if they somehow knew that I’d be flying later.

It was the end of morning rush hour when I got near the airport, well after the peak traffic, when chronically late manic-frantic lane weavers rule the road. Only one vehicle to remained in its lane for more than ten seconds: a big new BMW, piloted by a cell phone-talker doing fifty in the left lane. He smiled and cruised, oblivious to the parade of thundering eighteen-wheelers and light-flashing lane darters he held in tow.

I suppressed the impulse to fly into a finger-waving, red-faced rage. That would have set the wrong mood for my trip. Instead, I passed on the right, shot the driver a concerned look, and pointed at his rear tire, knowing that he’d either worry for miles or pull off the highway to check things out. You may think it petty, but he invited it. Besides, it is important to find ways to enjoy the annoyances.

I checked bags and secured a boarding pass at the terminal, then joined a procession shuffling through the security checkpoint. I knew from recent trips that some items you must leave behind - notably, pocket knifes, personal dignity, and your privileged status as customer (or even as a human, for that matter). We dutifully removed belts and shoes, laptops and change, watches and hand-held devices, and fed it all into the gaping jaws of a conveyor while TSA agents tormented us for their pleasure. The station supervisor reminded us repeatedly that liquids and gels in more than three-ounce quantities are prohibited.

"Yes, that does include your make-up, your suntan lotion and your toothpaste."

I know you’re thinking that I should be grateful for the service and security that they provide, and should suffer these annoyances gladly. I did. I fought to remain patient, and then thanked him for keeping us safe from well-groomed terrorists.

A travel day is a vacation to anonymity. You spend a day in the company of strangers that expect nothing of you except to remain anonymous. Some foolish travelers shun the escape, clinging to their responsibilities via cell phones and hand-helds. Avoid that trap - embrace your reprieve. Certainly, you will encounter gabby travelers determined to rob you of the experience, but looking around and saying something like, "Hey! Did you hear that?" usually thwarts them. For the more determined, though, the headphones mentioned earlier are quite effective. It is not necessary that your device be turned on, or even that the headphones be attached to anything. They work just as well all on their own.

No, you are not being aloof – just guarding your refuge.

Owing to a personal phobia of missing my flight, I typically arrive at the gate long hour before boarding and in need a way to amuse myself. A man with a booming voice seated next to me provided it in the form of a cell phone conversation. It was a half story with no point, plot or drama - the half conversation of someone I do not know, talking to someone else I don’t know about something that is none of my business. None of my business, that is, until he chose to thrust his personal business upon everyone within earshot.

This offense justified a game in which I tried to disrupt him. I flipped open my own phone (not turned on) and started a mock conversation - synchronized and related to the target’s.

Target: "I should be there about six, I’ll meet you in the lobby."

I said to my phone, "I may be running a few minutes late, so wait for me."

Target glanced at me, lowered his voice a notch, and said to his phone, " I was thinking of Adolpho’s for dinner."

Me: "The steaks are good, but kind of pricey."

I knew he was looking at me, but paid no attention. Soon, target got up and wandered off frowning.

We boarded the commuter jet but I missed my seat on the first pass and had to recheck aisle numbers. Dismayed, I discovered the truth - the man in the adjacent seat spilled over and filled both of our spaces. I wedged into my assigned nook, silently fuming about carry-ons with more allotted space than that available to me, but then remembered my credo.

Let the winds of discomfiture howl. I pulled the blanket of apathy tighter.

Early into the flight, I find reason to suspect my neighbor of clandestine flatulence. Before we reached cruising altitude, I was sure of it. Some forty summers ago my friends and I would compete to see who could stay longest at the bottom of a swimming pool. No one could touch me – I once made it two minutes. On this flight, I found that some of that ability remains. Even without prior notice or preparation, I was able to suspend breathing for about forty-five seconds. Unfortunately, the mean time for dispersion of a cloud of intestinal gas in an aircraft cabin is about one minute. Fifteen seconds can be an eternity. Staying true to the theme of adapting and overcoming, I learned to construct a wind tunnel around myself using the overhead turbo vents.

My ticket indicated one stop with no change of planes. When we stopped in Atlanta, the flight attendant shooed us all off. I tried to explain that my flight did not include a change of planes, but she had no time, desire, nor patience to take up the matter.

"Sir, you’ll have to take it up with the gate agent, now please exit the craft." Only the words denoted any attempt at politeness - her tone and manner screamed contempt.

The gate for the connecting flight was in another concourse, so a group of us treated ourselves to an unscheduled aerobic workout – a jog-race with luggage. When I stepped through the door into the cabin of the connecting flight, I was startled to see the same stewardess wearing the same alligator smile. The young man ahead of me removed his I-pod earphones and looked back at me.

"How did she do that? Is she a witch?" he whispered.

I suggested a phonetically similar, but different name.

We were re-seated, strapped in, and listening to the mandatory safety lecture when it hit me. This was the same jet. I confirmed it by checking the air-zine crossword puzzle in the seat pocket. They had dumped us off at one concourse, taxied to another, then picked us up again. I knew very well that the flight crew would meet later in some private club to hoot and howl about this grand prank.

I explained the prank to the traveler seated next to me, but he returned only a silent glance. Apparently, he never realized that his seat cushion could be used as a flotation device, and found the whole safety lecture too enthralling to bother responding. Then I remembered: he probably thought I was trying to disrupt his anonymity. I spent the rest of the flight trying to imagine some intricacy of air carrier logic that might account for the dump and shuffle.

We landed and I retrieved bags and made my way via shuttle to the rental car outpost with my aplomb worn, but intact. A line at the counter afforded me the opportunity to contemplate the age of the universe. I finally climbed into my mid-size warthog, turned the key and unleashed an explosion of ear splitting head-banger rock. I waited another eternity at the exit gate before setting out to get lost. Getting lost is a good thing; it is a first introduction to a new locality. More on that later.