South of O'Dark:30

"Airline travel is hours of boredom interrupted by moments of stark terror."

Al Boliska, 1960's radio personality

Eh bien, that was an interesting week.

I wasn't traveling for business back when WPF was born. Business travel had already long-reached the intolerable stage anyway. So, I didn't intend to write about my trip to the Mother Ship. Or any other 2011 event -- the inevitable travel required by a territory assignment now spanning 16 markets.

But, the trip marked for the week of January 10 is just too irresistible to ignore. I promise that anything I report here will be the truth; the whole truth; and, naturally, nothing but the truth. That means that I won't be able to report on much of anything actually related to the company, the business, my leadership, my colleagues, my corporate counterparts, and the cuisine of Louisville, Kentucky. To do so would certainly hasten my demise; which fate may have been sufficiently determined prior to this post.

No real names may be used. Some of those real names may be listening via one or more social media channels. No real names can be changed, even to protect the innocent or blameless. Analogies, euphemisms, and aliases would be wholly transparent...as a finite number of characters contributed to this epic tale.

I will note one matter of absurdity that is openly acknowledged by all involved at all levels; hence, a safe haven for ridicule. I will permit you to draw your own conclusion(s) as you ponder the title of this event, scheduled in early November for the dead of winter in a minor metropolitan area not equipped with snow removal equipment and any quantity at all of cutting-edge ice and snow melting chemicals. Sand and some salt slung from the back of a dump truck by a dude with a garden shovel? Check.

Yes, set your brain cells for "Stun," and absorb the full flavor of a meeting entitled "Getting Things Done Summit."

That's all I can say.

Well, I will add one more fact: an eight-hour tutorial of "Getting Things Done" requires four full days of "Out of the Office." OK, another key fact: it also requires a facilitator who appears to be the first truly indispensable person on the planet. She must be viewed as such, since she attempted to leave Charlotte, NC by jet for two consecutive days. That Charlotte didn't have sufficient deicer to move all the jets that wanted to get out meant that 24 people in Louisville would not get anything done for four days related to their direct responsibilities. They would also not complete the required "Getting Things Done" seminar, including the one-on-one counseling module. Naturally, I was especially looking forward to that 1:1 tutorial. Mmmm, mmm, mmm.

Let's focus on the obvious.

It's made even more obvious by the fact that I already made it my Facebook status on Tuesday. Some of y'all (that's Louisville for "you all") read that observation and thought I was being sarcastic. Did y'all know that Louisville is considered "The South?"

To wit, all the snow contained inside the dimension of our driveway in Highlands Ranch, Colorado on Monday morning was more snow than fell across Louisville metro for the entire week of January 10. I'm absolutely certain of it. Even if you subtracted the amount of snow removed Monday morning so that my driver could safely throw me and two bags into the back of an Escalade and trudge to DIA, you'd have more.

But, the schools across Kentucky seemed to be closed for at least two days. Indeed, much of the downtown area appeared to be shut down Tuesday and Wednesday. I didn't even wear a coat on Tuesday. I felt more like a stranger in a strange land than I could have possibly imagined.

Since I can't really write about anything, I'll divert to this admission: I am not gobsmacked by much at an airport. I've seen some truly stupid stuff. I've felt threatened by fellow travelers and TSA agents alike. I've been on old, rickety aircraft and brand-new (maiden-voyage "new") equipment. The flight attendants on long-bankrupted airlines aren't as cute as they used to be - in that "real people" kind of way. We seem to have more boys than girls now; the girls wear pants, and the boys wear pants. Depending on the flight, I am sometimes hard-pressed to tell them apart.

It's Monday, 1/10. I'm in DIA Concourse A, Gate 29. Waiting for the flight to Louisville, KY set for 11:24 a.m. Mountain.

No place to sit. Gate 29 is the absolute end of this long concourse which, thankfully, is not as long as the marathon known as "Concourse B." I'm in a chair next to a guy who smells like a hot dog. Raw onions and mustard, no waiting. He can't get comfortable in his seat, so he jumps up and plunks back down about every 30 seconds, juggling his late model Mac in one hand and his bladder-busting "Big Gulp" from the Conoco just inside DIA property in the other hand. I'm looking for a new seat when I hear the Gate 29 announcement: "Ladies & gentlemen on Flight 123 to Louisville, I regret to inform you that the facilities on board this aircraft are not working. Please use the facilities in the terminal prior to boarding. We apologize for this inconvenience."

This announcement is quickly followed by the first boarding announcement. I stand, look back to catch the terrified look on Hot Dog Man's face about the "facilities," and move to the front of the pack. That place where insufferable frequent flyers congregate to commiserate about the latest traveling horror. Well, none of us had encountered this level of a horror - no bathroom privileges on a flight set to take almost three hours. You know, a flight where they expect all of us to (simultaneously) drink drinks, eat snacks, and polish off the microwaved chocolate chip cookies with a big swig of water.

I've never seen a sadder group of folks trudge onto an airline. Since I take all the steps required to get an aisle seat as far forward as possible, I both see and feel long lines of folks from almost every demographic group in the country. The guy slated for the window seat happily appears, holding a Mountain Dew bottle of the size just beneath the two-liter.

I ruin his day with the question: did you hear the announcement in the terminal?

No, he didn't. Not only is he half-way through his Mountain Dew, he erupts with too much personal information regarding how he has unwittingly guzzled six iced teas in the restaurant with a colleague. He thinks he isn't likely to make it until we're airborne and at the altitude required to unbuckle a seat belt.

I smile. Uncharacteristically, I have not swallowed a drop of liquid in the prior three hours, at the risk of dehydration. Now, I will pass the supreme test of sitting politely in my seat with the extra legroom, all the way to Louisville and into the terminal restroom there.

But, God is merciful. Although a computer glitch had figuratively shut down the hopes and dreams of men, women, and children (did I forget to note that many, many children tend to be aboard planes on Mondays at midday?), what is called "The Miracle at 16,000 Feet" unfolds before our very eyes and bladders. Prayers are answered.

Green lights for miles - forward and aft.

And, that was just the first day...