A Distressed Passenger

While we were having dinner at the Bertucci’s across the parking lot, I remembered something I meant to write about our adventures in the airport. I was calling hotels from the courtesy phone in the airport. I don’t think I’ve ever used one of those before, so I was actually a little psyched. It made me feel like a grown-up. I guess I should start gauging my feeling like a grown up on how infrequently I note something that I’ve never done before. Nonetheless, the moment was noted.

I called the Comfort Inn first, and then checked it against the Hampton Inn. I asked the guy at the Hampton Inn how much a room was. He said “where are you?” If you’re also a grown-up, you also may have come to learn this: when you ask someone how much something is, and the answer is another question, you should probably not end transaction with a ‘yes’.

Still, I answered “at the airport”.

“Are you a distressed passenger?”

Oh, my goodness. I am a distressed passenger! “You know, I hadn’t called myself that until now, but yes, I am a distressed passenger.”

He offered me the same price as the Comfort Inn, so we went with them, since we had fond memories of putting people up at the Comfort Inn in Danvers for our wedding.

It actually worked out reasonably well: they’re literally next door to the airport, and they have a special park and ride deal, where we pay a little extra to leave our car in their lot and use the shuttle. Basically, if you subtract what we would have had to pay at the airport parking garage, we are only paying $30 for the hotel.

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