I love flying. Or, more accurately, I love airports (except for security), so I was stoked to be heading out that Sunday. I came down with a cold the day before, which slowed down my packing, but I still had all day to get ready. I left my apartment after a dinner of leftover Pizza Hut. (I’ve always been a fan of the brand, even after working there as a cook in high school. I still have a weak spot for the Stuffed Crust, despite my mild lactose intolerance or some kind of dairy sensitivity. I’ve never actually been diagnosed.)
I currently live in Minneapolis’s Phillips neighborhood, so on my way to the light rail I walked past the spot where over 200 homeless people (including many Native Americans) had pitched tents the previous August to December. A highway runs by there, as well as the light rail line between the airport and downtown, so I imagine clearing the encampment before the men’s Final Four came to town in April was a high priority for the city.
Even now, more than a year since the tents were taken down, the area is still fenced off. The grass was torn up and the dirt covered with green powder. There’s a sign on the locked gate: “NO TRESPASSING - MNDOT” (Minnesota Department of Transportation).
The area has become overgrown with towering weeds, and a police camera stands sentinel from the middle of the sidewalk. What was once a pleasant lawn is now a vacant lot, apparently because local officials are afraid the tent city will return. Actually, they should be afraid; tents sprang up nearby this summer, and a teepee was there briefly last fall. But the police have been vigilant about removing them before they have a chance to multiply.
At the station, 2 Black guys literally ran up to me asking for donations or signatures to support the “Bucket Bros,” a group of street musicians. (I’ll try to note the race of White people too. I just think it would be a classic case of middle-class avoidance if I didn’t note people’s race. I don’t wanna pretend I’m blind to it or that it doesn’t matter.) That’s never really happened to me before in the Twin Cities. I wanted to listen, but my cold had me in a daze, so I just said, “Sorry,” and moved on.
It wasn’t too cold, 40’s at least, so my spring jacket was enough. (I’m a native Minnesotan afer all.) I hopped the train to the airport. At the airport station (the only underground stop on the light rail) the up escalator wasn’t working. Usually, I take the stairs for the exercise, but it would’ve been really nice to ride the escalator this time, being sick.
The next, extra-long up escalator leading to the airport was also out of order, so I had to climb those stairs too, which are like 3-4 stories tall. I managed alright and went through the whole airport security soft-shoe charade without incident. There was only a short line.
On the TV’s by my gate was a men’s March Madness basketball game. I caught the exciting conclusion of the Duke-Central Florida matchup in which the Blue Devils escaped the Knights’ upset bid by the narrowest of margins. That was annoying since I’ve long hated Duke, but it was still a great finish, captivating and all that.
The flight to Atlanta was fine, as I recall. We got in about 11pm Eastern time. I went outside to wait for my hotel shuttle. It was warm outside, so the only thing that bothered me was anxiety about when/if the shuttle would arrive and if the hotel had my reservation.
When the shuttle finally came, there was some confusion about which Howard Johnson’s it was going to. I was so tired and sick that I didn’t even bother to figure out if it was the right one (although even when I’m in fine fiddle I’m often too meek to ask such questions).
It turned out to be the right shuttle, and I didn’t even need a reservation, because some of the people I arrived with didn’t have one and they had no trouble getting rooms.
The room was OK, but not all the lights worked. Usually, I need to read for a while in bed before I’m ready to “hit the hay,” but I was tired enough to turn out the light as soon as I got under the covers.
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