With our hour lost in Manaus, we felt sure that making our Miami to Orlando connection was gonna be a pipe dream. And we had to get our luggage to go through customs again!

I was in a severe travel funk by this time, swirling with negative vibrations. The Kennemers had a different connection from Miami, going through Atlanta to Bham. They also had the luxury of a flight that left an hour later than ours was scheduled to leave.

By some miracle, our luggage came out pretty fast, and we were able to haul ass through the correct line in customs and breeze into the country. The only good thing that had happened so far. Meanwhile, Pettus and Robo were with us, trying to get us to the Delta counter for our flight to Orlando.

We rushed up to an available agent named Pat, who was completely friendly, helpful, and keen to our hurry. We were throwing our luggage on the belt, hoping that none were over 50 lbs. And one was. Of course it was. So here we stood in the lobby of the Miami airport pulling underwear and damp shirts out of the heavy suitcase and cramming it into the smaller one. Not enough. How about these travel books? Or this table from the Amazon? I felt like I was on The Price is Right. In that bent position my back was beginning to kill me, and I was getting more bummed out by the second.

When the luggage was finally accomplished, Pat took a look at our tickets. After two seconds, she informed us, “Well, you can make your flight to Orlando after all. It’s been delayed an hour and a half.”

“Great!” we exulted. Perfect timing.

“Uh, no, not really,” Pat said in a sympathetic Midwestern twang. “If your flight to Orlando is delayed from here, you’ll miss your Orlando to Birmingham connection. Maybe we can route you through Atlanta.”

“That would be good if we could get on the Kennemers’ flight,” we agreed.

She immediately began tapping on the keyboard in perkily efficient airport fashion: the rapid fire of several strokes followed by the legato of a few keys, then a cacophonous finale punctuated with a triumphant tap of the last key.

“All right, you CAN get on the flight to Atlanta with your friends. But the flight from Atlanta to Birmingham is completely booked. Possibly you could rent a car and drive to Birmingham.”

That sounded wonderful. Just wonderful. Our reluctance caused another flurry of keystrokes, raising my hopes until she gave the final punch and said, “Noooo, that looks like it’s going to be your best option.”

“Well we don’t want to book it until we know there’s a rental car for us,” Jean said. “Do you happen to have any numbers?”

“Of course,” Pat said, and gave us the usual suspects. She was in no hurry to have us leave the counter until we had settled everything. I liked her immensely. For somebody who had to give you the big screw, she did it with class and elan.

We found a car at Alamo with no problem and reserved it right there at the ticket counter. Then Pat issued us boarding passes for Robo and Pettus’ flight. I was still pissed off, but at least I knew what the plan was, despite not liking it worth a damn.

We found our gate and took seats. Jean and I began watching all the people and discovered that Miami isn’t really in the United States. At least that’s what we observed. And then the announcement came: Delta flight blahblahblah from Miami to Atlanta would be delayed an hour and a half. Whatever joy I had mustered up to that point was quashed by that annoying, distorted, echoey voice on the P.A.

I sat sullenly in the chair while Jean offered to go get me some food. “No, I’m not hungry,” I said, lying. I had to be a dickhead because it was my birthday and I deserved it. After the requisite period spent “not being hungry” I decided that something from Nathan’s hot dog place would be good. Robo wasn’t interested, and Pettus didn’t want anything either. When the food came back, it was the wrong thing, but for some reason I didn’t care. I dug into a really good sandwich of some kind, with fries. Like a wary wild animal, Robo ate first one french fry, then a few others. I was glad to see him feeling like eating. I guess the food perked me up, because after that I behaved pretty decently.

On the flight to Atlanta I was able to enjoy a couple of cocktails that made the trip and the circumstances seem better, if only for a while.

After landing, we bade the Kennemers a sad goodbye and headed for the trains. We both had on shorts and short sleeved shirts, but I began to notice a lot of coats all of a sudden. It didn’t really concern me, because everybody anywhere always has more clothes on than I do.

Atlanta’s trains are very efficient, and we were at the luggage place quickly. This particular baggage claim was like something from a 23rd century department store with the stuff coming out on a cool, space-age track. We found ours pretty quickly and saluted our good luck. One thing Jean and I try to practice is not bitching at each other in stressful or unpleasant situations. We each know that the other doesn’t like it either and didn’t cause it (usually). It is an amazing balm in difficult times.

Once the outside doors opened and the blast of arctic February air hit us, we remembered how fickle winter in the South can be. We had lucked into a 35 degree night, but we bravely rolled our uncooperative English-speaking luggage out to the rental car shuttles. We had just gotten our bearings when we saw an Alamo bus ambling off. Both of us hollered at it, but it did no good. We took our place on the sidewalk, balancing all that stuff and freezing our asses off.

A few people asked us if we were crazy (politely–after all, Atlanta is still part of the South) to be dressed that way, and we got to explain that we had been in Brazil, etc. etc. It passed the time (about 10 minutes) until the damn Alamo bus came. The driver was a funny, mumbling, catchphrase spouting late-middle-age black man who was intent on taking care of everybody on the bus. He was great, and actually helped make our short trip to the Alamo lot kind of fun. It was nice to be back home, even if it WAS Atlanta.

He dropped us off at the office, where we stood forever and watched one agent try to help an obstinate woman with a faulty GPS of some kind. Jean finally suggested that we try the automatic check in machine. Which was successful! We knew where to go to get our car without having to get the help of the counter lady. HA! There goes YOUR job, girlie!

We schlepped the stuff clumsily outside to find our parking spot, when we were met by a large black lady wearing a bunch of clothes and a sweet, “Honey! Y’all need to get in that car! Whatchew doin’ without a coat on?”

“We’ve just gotten back from Brazil,” Jean chattered.

“Yeah? You had fun? Here’s your car, darlin. Lemme help you with that luggage.”

She popped the trunk and threw the stuff in before we could say anything. I think Jean gave her a couple of bucks. She deserved more, because she was the soothing sendoff that made the trip go fast. Our car had XM or Sirius or one of those systems, and we were able to listen to great stuff on the way home to the dogs. Jean drove and I put my feet on the dash.

Not such a bad birthday after all.