About that trip home

Thursday's journey home began well:  lots of sleep, a nice farewell to the ocean, and the usual excellent hotel check-out service.

As soon as the cab left the hotel's property, the driver pushed a few buttons on his van's after-market CD player, and Kenny Rogers started singing about the coward of the county.  I didn't recognize the next song, but it was Kenny again.  As the cab entered the airport's property, Kenny began asking Ruby not to take her love to town.  In retrospect, I should have taken this as a sign to avoid Charlotte and stay at the hotel, but I didn't.

The flight to Charlotte went well, as did my passage through customs and immigration; Global Entry is the only way to go.

The short flight to Raleigh appeared to be going well.  The plane was full, the pilot was talking--and then a man walked onto the plane, the pilot stopped, and the man announced that they had canceled our flight, the only other flight to Raleigh that night, and all the flights to Raleigh on Friday.  Mind you, the weather in Charlotte was fine, the weather in Raleigh was fine, and the weather at all points between the two cities was fine.  As best I can tell, American just didn't want the plane stuck in Raleigh.

Off the plane we all trooped.

Thanks to Gina, while everyone else was waiting to see what American would do for them, I headed to Hertz, where a rental car was waiting.  Three hours of driving later, I arrived in Raleigh, home but much more tired than I had expected to be.

I've been snowbound since then.

I do not currently heart American.