Jet Lag Blues

So it's two in the morning on Monday (10 am Sunday back home) and I am sitting in my hotel room--wide awake. I don't have to go to work until 7:45 am today. The dreaded jet lag has begun.

The flight over the ocean went better than I expected with a few minor flaws. Getting to it was another story:

Cruising over the western US in an exit row seat on a 757, legs stretched out as far as I can extend them, seat back reclined and relaxing tunes on the Zune; now if you have to fly the redeye at 10 pm, this is the way to go, I thought, I have it made.

Since we were already 45 minutes late out of SLC, the advantages of my assigned seat were huge. I had about an hour and a half once we got to LAX to get over to my international flight to Korea. If you miss an international flight it is usually a long time waiting to get the next one. So I was a little anxious over the situation.

The exit row seat on a 757 is right next to the boarding door. That meant I would be the first off the plane and could easily make it to my connections. So said the airline representative at the ticketing counter. The flight was smooth and uneventful, until I exited the aircraft in LA.

When the airline representative at the gate told me that the international terminal was three terminals away and I asked where I could find the shuttle or moving walkways I only got an extended arm with finger pointing toward the seemingly endless concourse and the words, "you will find it down the concourse, out the doors, between terminals 3 and 4."

"Security?" I inquired. "I have to go back through security?" I asked. Expecting to hear the welcome phrase, "Of course not." But I didn't. "Yes" was her only reply. "*#&$" was mine.

Have you seen the Hertz commercials from the past with O.J. Simpson running through the airline terminals? That was me. My camera, passport wallet, eyeglass "man purse", and Zune "man purse" were all tangled together around my neck and swinging to and fro as I ran toward the direction she pointed. I had on three layers of outerwear (fleese vest, jacket inner fleese liner, and jacket) with every pocket stuffed full trying to avoid overweight luggage fees and a baseball cap that chose this inopportune moment to challenge my abilities to keep it from falling off my head. It was ugly.

"Is the international terminal this way?" was my mantra (when I wasn't cussing out the authorities who designed a system that had me huffing and puffing, drenched with sweat toward my connecting flight).

After security decided they wanted to send my computer case through the machine 800 times to identify every cable and electronic device within I located the signs to my gate. Gate 101 it said. Good, first gate I reach will be mine. WRONG. Gate 101 is the last gate and there are one million gates in this specific concourse!

Fully drenced in sweat, out of breath, madder than hell, I finally make it to gate and onto the airplane.

The Korean Airlines 747 was clean and there was ample space for legroom. The flight attendants were all young attractive Korean men and women with nice smiles and were very helpful.

The only complaint I could possibly have about the 12+ hour flight was the young girl from Guatemala that sat next to me. She slept most of the flight and took it upon herself to beat the heck out of me as she did.

She kicked, tossed, turned, hit me with her legs, hit me with her stuffed animal, extended her legs into my leg space, leaned into me, and basically kept me from ever getting comfortable enough to sleep. Which is one of the reasons I am sitting here at two in the morning writing this blog post and wondering why I can't sleep anymore.

I'll keep you posted.