3/1 - The travel day from Dublin back to Porterville on Saturday was worthy of its own blog. The biggest lesson for the day?
Ethiopian Airline sucks. Never again. My first experience with the airline in Los Angeles was no fluke.
After trying to sleep in Dublin Airport for five hours, the airline wanted to verify my payment card. I used a different card to pay for the flight, but that account is closed now. The woman at the desk told me a person would be over in two minutes to verify the card, so I moved to the side to wait.
Forty-five minutes later, still no one had helped me. I was visibly annoyed at this point, pacing back and forth and knocking on the counter with my knuckles. I sarcastically asked the check-in lady, "should I just come back another time when it's less busy?" The fact an Irish guy named Eddy was going through the same thing, but in his case it was more than two hours of waiting, should make the airline ashamed of itself. Eddy was fuming, at one point calling the check-in people assholes to their faces.
Once someone finally made their way over to help us, the whole process took less than five minutes. It was shockingly bad customer service. United in our combined mistreatment from the airline, Eddy and I formed a brief friendship. I found out he is the captain of F.V. Stella, a fishing boat in Alaska. This is the exact kind of boat you see on the television show "Deadliest Catch." We talked about it for a few minutes, and I gave him my business card after saying I'd love to try crab fishing for a season because there's a sense of danger there (it also pays incredibly well).
After completing the 10-hour flight back to Los Angeles and putting up with a screaming brat who actually lay face down in the isle a few times just screaming at the top of her voice, I had one more travel hurdle to overcome, and this is where the story really gets interesting. Since my flight was delayed an hour because of the terrible customer service, I missed my Amtrak bus to Bakersfield.
I bought an Amtrak ticket for a bus leaving Union Station, but I didn't know how far that station was away from LAX. I had a travel plan; it was just badly planned and executed. Since I missed my first bus, I called Amtrak and changed the ticket to a later bus which was about an hour later. After waiting for the shuttle to Union Station (which costs $7), I realized I'd be late for this one as well.
After another call to Amtrak to change my bus to a later departure, I found out the later departure was sold out, so it was either this bus in less than an hour or I'd have to find a place to stay in Los Angeles for the night. After a moment of brief panic and a "what am I supposed to do?!" to the person on the phone because I had to get across Los Angeles in about 40 minutes, my head cleared.
From that point I was forced to use my last and most desperate option to get across the city: a taxi. Luckily I had a good driver, an Ethiopian man (coincidence?) who zoomed me downtown and to Union Station in 25 minutes, five minutes before my bus left. After running through the station, frantically trying to figure out where my bus was, I made it, breathless and sweating. All things considered, the $60-plus fare to get me there was worth it, but that was one close call.
The bus trip to Bakersfield and train ride to Corcoran were uneventful besides the fact I sat next to a man who had been released from prison that day after a three-year stay. He had nothing with him besides the sweatsuit on his back and a few papers. I let him use my phone to get a ride from the train station because I'd want someone to help me if I were in his shoes.
I was happy to be back in Porterville that night, something I won't say too often. It was a long, expensive and stressful day, but it was also filled with crossing paths with fascinating people. Having an adventure and a good memory sometimes begins in the airport terminal, so the fact the day was difficult is no problem. I'm not angry; it's a great story!
4/1 - Despite being jetlagged, I visited some friends in Visalia on Sunday. To their house I brought my favorite beer: Trapistes Rochefort No. 10. I was pleasantly shocked to find it in a BevMo in Visalia. Though the bottle wasn't aged for more than a year like the one I had in Wales, this was still a damn good bottle of beer and well worth this $8-per-bottle price tag. It was a great way to spend a Sunday back in the Central Valley.
The rain jacket I took with me to Ireland absolutely reeks with the combined odor of wood smoke, sweat, dirt and manure. I unfolded it at the dry cleaners on the counter, and the odor made me take a step back. It served a useful purpose and I'm fortunate to have had it, but, damn, that was an awful smell. Fortunately, I have no pictures of the smell.
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