Dear the 3 of you,
I’d like to share a story:
I had a lovely week of seclusion on an island where the median age is 70, the speed limit everywhere is 25 mph and everything shuts down at 10:00 p.m. So I was very well-rested and refreshed by the time Saturday rolled around and it was time to come home to reality. That did not last.
We had an hour layover in Charlotte before heading to La Guardia on a 10:00 p.m. flight, so I bought some string cheese and sat down at the gate. 10:00 came and went and we were all still sitting there. Luckily I was sitting across from a Taylor Lautner look-alike so I occupied myself Googling him to find out where in the world he was. Turns out he was in NYC (go figure), so it couldn’t have been him. But I still think it was – he had a Louis Vuitton bag; no normal guy would carry a Louis Vuitton backpack, have long hair, and wear brass knuckles unless they were a werewolf, obviously.
Anyway, at 11:00 they finally told us we could not fly to La Guardia because of a curfew….It’s 10pm do you know where your plane is? Not at La Guardia. So they said we could fly to Newark. I mean, gross… New Jersey, but fine whatever. When people started complaining that we had been sitting on the plane without moving for 20 minutes, a flight attendant came over and told us in his North Carolina twang that the flight was late because the flight attendants had been arguing for an hour with the pilot over a urine stench coming from the bathroom. The pilot said he didn’t care – use the pee plane. So now, the pilot was unfit to drive the plane….because he had exceeded his maximum hours of flight for the day…
They never found a new pilot, so they canceled the flight at midnight and told us we could stay in lovely Charlotte for the night and fly out in the morning. What they meant by that was they would give us a voucher for a discounted hotel room that didn’t exist because all the hotels were booked. Beyonce was in town. But, we were welcome to spend the night in baggage claim….As if I wasn’t already so OVER Beyonce.
I was fuming and having visions of sleeping on the conveyer belt on top of strangers’ duffel bags, so I called every hotel in the area until I found one 20 minutes away that had open rooms.
One $30 cab ride later we were at the Marriott in the heart of Charlotte across from a Hooters. And by “we” I mean myself, my parents and my 18-year-old sister. Of course my mom was ravenous and said we had to drop our bags off upstairs and then head to Hooters. In the elevator we ran into some ladies from our flight and told them how the only reason there weren’t any closer hotels available was because of Beyonce. That actually cheered them up. “Beyonce’s my gurrrl!!!”
Hooters was closed, we were told by a man who stumbled out the door and mumbled something about a “curfew.” What is with curfews? It’s 1:00 a.m. do you know where you’re going to eat? Not Hooters.
So we walked over to “The Epicentre.” This is a three story ring of bars, clubs, late-night food, CVS and CBS studios where the people of Charlotte get WILD. I don’t know if everyone was just high off Beyonce’s energy, but the crowd was rowdy. And I’ve never seen so much side boob, under boob, top boob, side ass, under ass etc. in my life. It’s also a mecca for bachelorette parties.
I can definitley see how this place could be a good time, but I was too tired and sober to handle it. I was also too tired and sober to handle seeing my dad, the only middle-aged white person in basically the whole city, waiting in line for pizza at 1:30 a.m. with all the drunk people. One girl ran up to him and asked him “Do you think they have any meat lovers’ pizza?” They did; it was on the menu. Of course in the meantime, my mom befriended a schmoozy speed boat salesman that kept dropping names and F-bombs. She thought he was cute – for me. Thanks, mom.
Anyway, after hitting the town, we slept for 3 hours and eventually made it to the beautiful Garden State. Thanks for a great night.