The airlines punished me yesterday. After years of flying and never losing baggage (I admit that I rarely traveled with skis), after years of hearing woeful tales of missing boots and borrowed poles, my luck finally ran out. My boot bag, which was filled with far more than just boots, never made it to Bozeman. Instead it floated in airport limbo, maybe in Detroit, maybe in Minneapolis, hopefully not in Burlington, but definitely not in Bozeman.
In retrospect, I think it was punishment for the crude comments I made about Detroit to Matt as we were landing. As a Bostonian, I don’t have much love for the Motor City. It all stems from a Celtics-Pistons rivalry I was far too young to experience firsthand. But it happened, and since I love the C’s, I hate the Pistons. What has Detroit really done for America anyway? Prince? Yeah, okay, so he’s the man. Ford? Okay, I guess, but Henry Ford was an anti-semite. Isaiah Thomas? Bill Lambeer? Eminem? Don’t even get me started. One redeeming name out of a list of 5. Pathetic.
But, for all you Detroit-lovers who are clenching your fists, I got my just deserts. When I stepped off the plane, my carefully-packed Rossignol boot bag, which I had gracefully agreed to gate-check in Burlington, was nowhere to be found. The baggage man said the it was on the tarmac, but since it had no legitimate baggage tag on it and the gate-check tag had been ripped off, I was not permitted to be reunited with my possessions until my final destination. And we all know how that turned out.
So, to Detroit I say, “Touche, you got me this time.” Hopefully I’ll never have to enter that backwater again. But if I do, I’ll be sure to settle the score … somehow.
(Addendum: my bag is now en route to West Yellowstone, so all will be well in the world. As soon as I get it back, that is.)
