Having traveled from both San Francisco International Airport (SFO) and Los Angeles International Airport (LAX), I was pretty confident that I knew what "big" airports were like. Well, I was wrong! The words "big" and "busy" are just two of the most oft used words in describing Atlanta's behemoth of an airport and the descriptors are not, in my mind, entirely accurate without the amplifiers "very" in front of both words.
The Hartsfield-Jackson Airport at Atlanta is the world's busiest airport with more than 94 million jet-setting travelers arriving or leaving through its more than 200 gates. The place is SO BIG, in fact, that there are multiple buildings where passengers leave and exit (Buildings T, A, B, C, D, E and the international terminal F). Atlanta's airport is the "hub" for Delta Airlines, so it was the location where my flight would end.
As the plane taxied into Terminal F, my seat companion, Joe G--who had spent the entire flight asleep and "numb" to his surroundings thanks to headphones and sleeping mask--finally woke up and joined the rest of the passengers in retrieving baggage and exiting the plane. I had seen Joe in the terminal as we were checking larger pieces of baggage in San Jose, so we did actually "know" one another from standing in line, but now that we were on the ground and he had caught a few "z"s, Joe turned out to be quite a lovely man. In fact, he told me he was returning to Atlanta from a two week golfing stay in California, and would soon be moving to Newport Beach, California to be near his children--all of whom were incredibly successful young business people. He had spent his time asleep on the plane because he would be golfing again in a tournament that afternoon!
As we walked through the terminal, Joe told me that Atlanta was the country's busiest airport and that we had landed in the International Terminal (Building F), so we would have a trek of almost two miles to get to baggage claim. The idea that I would be walking for TWO miles seemed daunting, but Joe assured me that he had heard "they fixed the problem" in getting from the International Terminal to Baggage Claim, and, indeed, as we went down a flight of stairs, we arrived at the "Plane Train."
Joe and I entered the almost empty tram at Building F, and I immediately noticed that there were no chairs inside the tram--just 10 vertical steel posts rising from floor to ceiling, hanging passenger "loops" hanging from the ceiling, and several horizontal steel bars positioned at hip height along the interior walls of the train. I should mention that Joe is a very good looking man, trim, tanned and approximately my age. Joe took a position opposite from me on the train and leaned casually against the wall--looking like a GQ model. On the other hand, I'm short and plump and did not know what to expect on this "plane train" so I wearily toted my carry-on bags onto the train and stood in the middle of the tram, wondering where to sit down. The doors closed, and an automated female voice said "Welcome to the Plane Train...this train is leaving..." Joe said quickly "you might want to hold onto something," but didn't quite warn me fast enough, because as the train quickly accelerated along the track, I was tossed backward inside the car. I quickly found my footing, grabbed the nearest pole and hung on for dear life. Within about 40 seconds after "jack rabbiting" from a complete halt to a racing speed, the automated voice said "The train is coming to a stop..." and with that the tram SLAMMED on the brakes, and I careened into the pole. As I, again, had to find my "footing" in the train and try to look unruffled by the sudden start and stop, I saw that Joe seemed unmoved by the tram and still looked as attractively casual as model on his side of the tram car.
Several people entered the car and we raced along the track again, toward Building D. "How many more exits?" I asked Joe. "Five," was his response--I didn't relish being hurled around the tram car five more times, but I clung onto that pole as it were the mast on a ship rocking around through a storm. Each time, the train bolted forward, and then slammed to a stop, I braced myself, while also trying to look as "cool" and calm as Joe--I failed miserably.
Finally, we reached Building T, the baggage claim, and Joe found the carousel where our plane's baggage would arrive. His driver (yes, Joe had a driver and limo waiting for him) helped him retrieve all of his luggage (two sets of golf clubs and a checked bag) and they made their way toward the exit. Before he left, Joe pointed me in the direction of the area where I could find my rental car. Much to my chagrin, as I entered the building, I found that it was ANOTHER train--this time a longer one that would take me to the rental car pavilion about 3 miles away. Thankfully, there were four tiny seats on the end of the tram, and I quickly dragged my bag over and took a seat on the train. Unlike the "Plane Train," which traveled a straight line through the terminal, the "Car Train" traveled along a winding track that banked quite steeply to the left and right, so those who had unwisely chosen to stand in the tram where jostled and forced to readjust their weight to avoid tipping over as the cars turned.
Five minutes later, I was at the car rental pavilion where I spun around for about an hour looking for my rental company As I dragged my luggage to the rental counter, I was told that my car was no longer available since I had arrived more than 5 hours later than expected. At this point, tired and still two hours from my destination, I told the rental agent whose name tag read "Charlotte" (but who pronounced her name "Shall-lay"--I was not going to argue with her...the woman had the keys to my rental car) that I would take whatever they had. Charlotte rapidly typed on her keyboard, looked at me earnestly and said, "How do you feel about a foreign car...say a Passat." She asked the question as if I might be offended because the vehicle was not a Chevrolet or Ford. "I've owned a Passat...that's fine," and she assigned me the car, which I had to retrieve in the next building over, and as far from the walkway as possible.
The most notable thing about the South in the summer is not the lovely Southern accent or "drawl," but rather the oppressive heat coupled with humidity that drapes over you like a hot, soggy blanket. As I dragged (and cursed at) my heavy luggage through the rental car garage, the lovely people at Hertz had set up a huge fan on the walkway for those picking up cars there, so I stood in front of the fan, "spread eagle," my long hair whipping around as if I were in a 1970's music video, and cooled off. I only decided to stop when I saw that a lot of customers inside the Hertz mobile office were staring bemusedly at my animated "fan dance." So I pulled myself together and proceeded to my rental car.
I have seldom been more grateful to be in an air conditioned car than on that day in Atlanta, Georgia. As I turned my cherry red Passat out of the garage and onto the roadway, I could not be more thankful that I had brought my GPS and was on my way to Birmingham. It was past 11:30 in the morning in Georgia--9:30 a.m. my time in California, and I had not a "lick" of sleep since the previous day--but I was heading to Alabama, and I could not have been happier. I turned on the radio and headed down the roadway for my two hour drive to Alabama.
More to come...Part 3, I'm in Alabama!!
Singers Mentioned Here!
@sparkymac is my wonderful friend and fantastic singer, Chris who lives in West Texas. Chris plays guitar and had a long career as a musician and singer. Join him for great songs and duets on Smule
@wlm_mitch22_sf is my bestie and business partner, Mitch, who you can find hosting a plethora of different songs on his site here on Smule.
Me? I'm Grace and my Smule tag is @pokeypal, and this is my journal of my visit to Alabama to see my pal, Mitch. Join me as post blogs all week about my trip to Alabama!
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