Arrived in Potland this evening, sans luggage.
Delta lost it. I waited and waited, no bag. I’ve probably flown, oh, 500 times in my life. This has never happened before. And, at the risk of being a baby, it sucks.
The woman at the counter told me I could expense up to $100 for clothes because, literally, all I have are the duds I’ve now worn for 18 hours. I arrived at my hotel, asked if there was a place a guy could go at this hour, dreading the absolutely inevitable reply. Which, inevitably, came. “About 10 miles down the road,” the woman said, “there’s a Wal*Mart.”
So that’s where I went.
I’m no clothing snob. Crap, I’m a grade D dresser. But cruising Wal*Mart for decent duds is like cruising the halls of Betty Ford for a bottle of Jack. Everything is frumpy and outdated and, well, ugly. Again, I’m a bad dresser. But Wal*Mart is unique awful, in that there’s nothing a person can buy that would even suggest that maybe, possibly, perhaps he’s wearing, oh, Banana Republic or Gap or even Sears.
No, Wal*Mart is distinctly Wal*Mart.
Anyhow, I spent $80, and now I’m ready to go to bed.
Unhappily.
PS: I’m here researching the next book, which means I’m traveling on my own dime. Which means I’m staying in a $50 airport HoJos. I’m no hotel snob, but something in this room smells, well, tuna-ish.
