Zooey Deschanel lied. There is nothing quirky, fun, or adorkable about being the “new girl.” I would describe my first week in Chicago as a series of unfortunate events and a lesson in “Murphy’s Law.” I’ll share one example if you promise not to cue the sad violins on me.
After landing at O’hare I learned that one of my bags was left by the gate. This was due to me making the mistake of not reading the very fine-print on the airline luggage tag. This mistake set off a domino-effect of failures. When I went to retrieve my other bags I was told that I would have to go back up to the gate to get my bag. This meant that I would have to go through airport security again. However, I also had to make sure I got to my apartment’s management office by 5pm otherwise I would not get my keys to move in which would literally put me out on the streets until the morning. My flight was delayed, so I was already behind. An airport official gave me the gate number and I made my way through security. I then followed the signs to the gate only to learn that the official had given me the wrong number. I had to then go through security a second time to get to the right gate.
This second-round was a doozy. It took twice as long and I was getting impatient. And, then it happened. A TSA officers tells me that they need to pat down my hair because it set off the machine. I had already been through security twice that day with no problem, but this time there was a problem and it was supposedly in my hair. So, the woman pats down my hair as people watched only to find, surprise, surprise, there’s nothing in it. I’m still not sure what she was looking for, but I hope she enjoyed the smell of Oil Sheen.
Now it’s almost 3pm, so I book it to the gate. Finally, with my bag in hand I rush back down to grab my other belongings that an official locked up for me in storage. I go outside and hop in a cab. It takes approximately 40 mins to get from the airport to the city on a good day. Last Monday was not a good day. We were hit with major traffic. The clock’s ticking and now it’s almost 4:30pm. I get a call from the management office saying that if I do not get there by 5pm I will have to get my keys in the morning. I explain my situation as calmly as I possibly could, but they simply repeat themselves. I’m trying to remain calm at the prospect of being put on the street, staying in a hotel, or booking it to The Nun’s house again. Then the cab driver says this, “If they don’t let you in then you can come and spend the night with me.” He says this in a pervy-way not in an, “I actually care about your well-being way.” Considering he has been making googly-eyes at me the whole ride I pass on the offer and tell him to book it downtown.
We get downtown around 4:45pm and I walk inside the management office only to learn that I had gone to the wrong office. Pervy Cab Driver was waiting outside, so I hop back in the cab to go the other office location. We get there and it’s now 5:03pm. Luckily, a few minutes prior to that the management office called me to say that someone will wait for me to get there. Yes, to not being homeless! I take my bags out of the cab, pay Pervy Cab Driver, get my keys, and hail another cab to my new home.
Then I lived happily ever after. Sike. Read my next post to learn what happens.
Photo Credit: Giant Ginko