FLYING ON A PLANE NAMED HELL
We had ordered a minivan from 777-7777 to get us, our two large suitcases, three carry-ons, Emmy's purse which had grown to the size of Santa's toy bag on his Christmas run, my U.S. postal satchel and a Victoria Secret shopping bag filled with sandwiches, chips and fruit. The truth is neither Rick nor I are particularly calm fliers especially when not every "i" had been dotted and every "t" crossed. For this trip we had one major "t" left without its crossbar, our boarding passes.
Now for that cab ride, we nor our driver had done a traffic check before we all got on the road. Seeing the line up for the Lincoln Tunnel should have tipped us off. It was a massive back up. Apparently sometime in the early morning a dump truck had tipped over and caught fire on the New Jersey turnpike and traffic had been stopped in both directions. It was going to be a nail-biter of a ride to get us to Newark. What should have been a forty-five minute drive at most ended up taking two hours and it would have been double that if our driver hadn't decided to throw traffic etiquette out the window and drive the last six miles on the illegal shoulder while I grabbed the sissy bar and white knuckled it all the way to the terminal.
LISBON AND THE ANA LOUNGE