The Only Post Ever in Which I refer to Paris Hilton, I swear

Driving back from Columbia to Atlanta was hardly memorable. Apparently we timed it wonderfully, though, because that day all eastbound traffic on I-20 at the state line had major accident issues. And then after we passed all that traffic going the other way, the local radio station reported an accident where we had just been. Sufficiently relieved, we proceeded to drive faster. (No we didn't, Georgia State Troopers! Just Kidding! Ha!)

So Atlanta appeared just as the sun started to go down, a good thing because who wants to drive into the sun? Except Atlanta is really, come to think about it, a lot like Houston. There's so darn much of it. Sprawl, thy name is Southern Metropolis.

So on through about 17 bedroom communities and suburbs until, miracle of miracles, the airport and the Hilton magically appear in the windshield.

Say whatever the heck you please about Paris Hilton, her folks know how to run a hotel. Oh my goodness. We check in to a suite. Not a pretend suite like we had found at the Holiday Inn Express. No, this was two rooms, pull-down bed in one, full bath in each, fluffy pillows everywhere and the little snack bar thing. My parents had a corner view on the Executive floor with chocolate on the pillows. They could watch planes take off and land all night if they chose. And y'all, you couldn't HEAR those planes. You could see them well enough to wave to passengers, but you could NOT HEAR THEM. Who builds buildings like that?

Of course, my sinus issues may have rendered me partially deaf, too, so what do I know?

Anyway, after staying twice this year in Hilton Hotels, I am sold. The rooms cost the same as the icky ones we had just left, and we slept ten times better. The Little Critter had a long swim in a large pool, a quick meal, and then collapsed quite early. Oh, yes, I no longer care if Paris Hilton snorts all the money I give the chain up her nose. Keep snortin' honey, if that's what it takes to keep this chain running like it is now.

Of course, in the morning, Pop is panicked a little.

"You should come down to the business center and print your boarding passes. Right Now!" Of course I am in pajamas and have hair a la rat's nest.

"We should get an early start turning in the rental cars because the security lines will be enormous!" Remember, this is two days after the Baby Bottle Bomb Ring, or whatever they planned to do, were rounded up in London. Every television we'd seen had images of airport refugees, people hoping one day they will have purged enough liquid or gel materials from their baggage to enter the airport bathrooms, never mind the actual plane.

But who is late getting out the door? Pop and Company. Meanwhile we'd found (Karma!) another Waffle House next door and leisurely dined on cholesterol-laden food products, gassed up the car to return to the rental folks, and had checked out without leaving one thing behind in the room. (This is a remarkable achievement for me, since last year the Little Critter left her two loveys behind in Dallas when we evacuated from Rita. One of which we eventually did get back. Try driving Dallas to Waxahachie, then back to Dallas and then resignedly to Houston with a child sobbing uncontrollably the whole way because Piggy Is Lost. I still have to do the evacuation story, don't I?)

We're at Atlanta airport and immediately upon entering we see: a huge line. Fortunately it's for Air Tran (or not so fortunately, if you happened to be flying Air Tran that day) and not security, so Continental is looking great with two lines open and no waiting. Five minutes and our bags, gel items inserted, are checked. Five minutes later finds s in the Security area. Ten minutes after that we are through. And I'm thinking "That was IT? I panicked for that?"

Unfortunately the terminal we were in was under major renovation, meaning one place to sit down and eat if you don't mind a two hour wait for a seat, and a bunch of kiosks serving, well, kiosk food. This made Nana a less-than-happy camper. But eventually they called the flight to board. Three minutes later they called Last Call to Board. What the heck? Since when do they give you five minutes to board? Especially since you KNOW you will sit on the tarmac out there for a minimum of forty minutes (federal aviation regulations) before being allowed to actually GET to a position that looks like a runway is attached. I give up.

Apparently I was so exhausted on the flight home I slept, upright, through everything but the drink service. And then, by the time we got home, the Bigun had offloaded her things, gone the rounds of the friends she hadn't seen in ages, visited work and saw everyone, called in to say she was spending the night out, and we never saw her until the following evening.

I keep saying I love to travel, and then when I write it all down, it doesn't sound so much fun. That's so weird.