Shuttles and Hotels

The last time I flew into The Old City I arrived after midnight, which - taking into consideration a three hour time change - counts for the next day for someone my age.  In fact, sometimes it counts for the day after the next day.  It's not even the same week sometimes, it's so disorienting.

I made my way out of the baggage claim area and found the waiting area for the shuttle that would take me to where the car was actually located.  I suppose I could have spent a little more money and rented a car from one of the fancy agencies that have a spot right in the terminal. The airport was empty, eerily dark, as I stood there by myself, wistfully looking at the employees of Hertz and Avis, right across the street, doing nothing in their brightly lit offices, their lots packed with working cars.  No one was in line at their counters.  No one was in there at all besides the employees themselves, young people idly looking at computer screens.  They would have had plenty of time to wait on me as I signed up for one of their horrifically overpriced vehicles.

I stood there for a while, watching competitive car rental shuttles drive by, full of cheerful looking passengers going to get their cars.  Everybody but my company.  I noticed that the overhead sign indicated that I was standing in an area reserved for several of the agencies that have offices off-site, but not the one with whom I had actually reserved a car.  Apparently I had chosen a company who was even lower on the pecking order than the companies banished to remote corners of the airport; maybe this is why their prices were so low.  An arrow pointed me to a waiting area further removed from the terminals, a really creepy empty area, with no cars, no passengers, nothing but buzzing fluorescent lights circled by legions of biting, stinging insects.

A competitive company's shuttle eventually pulled up.  The door shushed open with a hydraulic sigh.

"Are you waiting for Enterprise?" the driver asked.
"Yes," I replied.
"They're closed," he stated matter-of-factly and with a lot of good cheer.
"No, I have a car reserved with them," I said stupidly.  I fished out my rental agreement and showed it to him.
"This happens all the time," the guy said.  "Hop in.  We'll rent you a car."

They rented me a car.  Sometimes I think that there's only one car rental company.  Sometimes I think there's only one airline company, too.  They just paint the planes with different logos.  How would you know?  I used to think there was one big factory that made all the various types of cars that you can buy.  It could be that each city has a huge underground kitchen which prepares the food for every last fucking restaurant, the meals coming up through a subterranean dumbwaiter system.  Thai, Japanese, Cajun, burgers . . . all made by the same group of cooks, laboring in a smoky, steamy, dirty cavern deep beneath the surface of the city.

The next time I came into town I decided to avoid the car rental agencies and just get a hotel room at the airport and pick up the car the next morning . . . when the office was open.  I'm not very smart.  The hotel offered a free shuttle with their hours listed as 7 AM to 12 PM.  I arrived at 11:30 PM and immediately called the reservations desk to make sure I was on the last shuttle.  I was immediately told that the last shuttle was at 11:30 and that I had missed it and good luck with everything.  I pointed out that their website listed midnight.  They pointed out that their shuttle driver worked until midnight but had to leave the terminal by 11:30 to get back to the agency.  They were not swayed at the logic of my arguments.  They did not pick me up.

It was okay.  Everything worked out eventually.  I got my car and I made it to the hotel and everything was fine.