A near-perfect week of vacation on Grand Cayman ended on a bit of a down note last night. We should have known things would be “interesting” when the pilot on our first flight from Cayman to Atlanta announced that we were being held before landing, due to the bane of ATL’s existence: “Traffic and weather.” After a thirty minute hold, we managed to land, when Delta hit us with my other favorite: “No gates available.” This is particularly amusing to someone who has worked in logistics in the past; it’s not like our airplane landed at ATL unannounced or unexpected, but nonetheless, there were no gates for our band of merry travelers.

After another thirty minute wait, we pulled into the gate, the comedy of errors not yet complete. After everyone had leapt from their seats and been packed in the aisle for several minutes, they announced that the jetway operator could not get the jetway positioned correctly, and that a technician had been called. Another fifteen minute penalty was assigned to these two weary travelers, yet like thoroughbreds we leapt out of the gate, bags in tow when the jetway was finally fixed.

US Customs was uncharacteristically efficient, but then we were subjected to the other task that drives anyone with a penchant for logic crazy. We had to pick up our checked baggage, and walk it about one hundred feet to another conveyer belt to recheck it. This process is purportedly for “security” reasons. The only theory I could come up with is that any terrorist wishing the US harm who saw this system would assume the country that devised it was so confused it would surely destroy itself without outside aid.

Our two dive bags were last seen together merrily heading side by side down the second conveyor belt, but it was the last time we’d see Meghan’s bag that evening. After leaving the bags and sprinting from one side of the airport to the exact opposite side, we made our New York bound flight with seconds to spare. We leaned back in our seats, assuming our trials were over.

Upon arrival to a rainy New York, we discovered Delta was not yet done with us. There are three huge baggage belts in LaGuardia airport, and as if parodying its own bankruptcy, they announced that two were broken, so luggage from five flights would be dispensed on a single conveyer. One hour later, we gave up hope that Meghan’s bag would ever appear and filed a claim. Despite the advanced looking barcoded labels on all luggage, the claims agent told us there was “no way” to track anything, and the best we could do was call the next day.

Feeling defeated, we called Carmel car service, who we had reserved a car with one week prior. The “helpful” reservation lady said our car was circling the airport, and I needed to stand out in the rain in order for the driver to see me at the pickup point. Fast forward 45 minutes to a rather soaked Pat, and Meghan calling Carmel to get the story. It turns out that the car was actually not at the airport, and would be delayed anywhere from ten minutes to two hours. Thanks Carmel. Some minor negotiations with a cab driver got us a flat rate home at nearly double the cost of our car service, but at that point, we were ready to get home by any means possible. Wet and tired, we promptly called it a night, dreaming of far more delightful days of diving and umbrella drinks on the white sandy beaches.

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After a minor false start, we picked up a shiny almost new Honda Rebel last weekend. The prior owner had apparently won the bike in a contest, rode it home and decided to keep his existing ride. With a mere 3 miles on the clock, the bike was priced as if used, but for all intents and purposes, new. I was forced to dust off my clutch and shifting skills for the ride home, and with only one stall and some very minor protests from the transmission, made it home in one piece.

As with most government services in New York, a “delightful” three hour wait at the DMV with angry citizens of the Empire State, followed by rousing discourse with an apathetic government employee resulted in freshly minted NY State tag and registration certificate. I was promised a mere 90 “business” days for the wheels of the machine to crank out the title, while being admonished that I would have less than 10 calendar days to complete various inspections and my end of the “bargain.”

License and registration appropriately placed on the bike, this weekend, Meghan and I went to a relatively abandoned parking lot for her first installment of Motorcycling 101. Like skiing and SCUBA diving before, she picked it up surprisingly quickly and in no time was zooming around the parking lot (albeit at less than 10 mph or so). As a final flourish to her first lesson, she was working the turn signals and giving the throttle a little rev to show off, although shifting into second gear will wait for a future lesson.

To cap off the weekend’s moto-related activities, we made a quick trip up to the local BMW Motorcycle dealer to get Meghan some boots, and drool over new steeds. The motivation for all this two wheeled action is a plan for an “extended” ride slowly congealing in the back of our minds. Stay tuned for details…

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