Holiday travel as a metaphor for existence, or at least your twenties? It could be a thing. I just wrote “I Made It to Wyoming” for Oy!Chicago, which is part travelogue, part confession of poor planning habits and part announcement: next week will be my last at my present employer. After that comes another adventure.
My first flight, the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, was scheduled to leave Midway around 1:30. I’m terrible about packing. I always tell people I have packer’s block, and can only do it the morning I leave. It only takes me half an hour at the outside, so I was prepared to enjoy a leisurely breakfast at my Lincoln Square apartment with a huge mug of my favorite tea. Until, of course, I remembered that I wasn’t giving myself nearly enough time to navigate a major airport on the busiest travel day of the year. I’m not saying the scene that followed was from Home Alone, but it’s not as far off the mark as I like to admit.
Read on for life lessons, horrible fates and a first-hand account of driving through Big Sky Country at night. (Fun fact: Wyoming and I share a birthday!)