Hello world!

jamiebergey — Sun, 10 Jul 2011 18:41:30 +0000

So, for my first post I am supposed to discuss my experiences so far at the George Mason University Washington Media and Journalism Conference (forthwith referred to as WJMC or GMU, whichever I feel most inclined to use). I shall start with the plane (Was it Gilligan’s Island where a funny little man yelled, “De plane, de plane!”?). My flight was from Las Vegas to Dulles, midnight to 4 am my time, 3 am to 7 am DC time. This was my first ever solo flight. I was plenty prepared: passport and boarding pass clutched in my hand, carry-on bag comfortably within the size requirements, my personal item (a sporty laptop backpack) stocked with delicious snacks, courtesy of my father. I waved goodbye to my parents, thoroughly dissatisfied with the level of shops open at mignight in a Las Vegas airport. No Cinnabon, nor Wetzel”s Pretzels; all that was available was a Starbucks with a fridge on the fritz. I proceeded through security, feeling incredibly clumsy and smelly as my stanky shoes invaded my nostrils and my things overflowed from four, count ‘em: four, different trays. But I made it through, to fly another day. Then I followed the many overhead signs to my gate, D55. I chose the stairs over the adjacent escalators, thinking myself fit. Boy, was I wrong. As I trudged up the incline, I felt renewed sympathy for those who have ever played Mario 64 — you know who you are! The fake granite steps with strips of black grippy stuff swam before my eyes as I heaved my way to the summit of Mt. Everest, carry-on bumping into each successive step, shoulders burning from the weight. Then a choir of angels sang; I had arrived on flat terrain. Just a handful of overhead signs separated me from my final (somewhat) destination. I paused to admire the fantastically campy panoramic mural overlooking the D gates: the Flamingo hotel, Elvis, Sigmund and Roy, and other obnoxious Vegas icons smiled benevolently down on me, cheering me on even as a fashion-forward pair of girls pushed past the weird girl gawking at the ceiling while good citizens tried to get to their flights on time. I finally located my gate, depositing my cumbersome baggage in a spot near enough to others to feel safe, but with a sizable enough bubble to hinder awkward moments. Wrong again! There were plenty of open spots with pre-made buffer zones, welcome to all; yet what does this elderly woman do? She plops her geriatric bum directly beside me, not the least bit deterred by the physical boundaries created by my massive luggage. I tried to pass the time by surfing the internet, but poor Netflix thought I was in Canada. So I sat and waited. My patiencce was rewarded most deliciously. What did I hear from the other side of the chairs? None other than the beautifu lilt of British males. Who cares that they were discussing their unsavory Vegas exploits? Certainly not me. But before I could turn and propose marriage, we were off. The plane began loading with first class and military. They were afforded the luxury of entering via a red carpet — it was nothing much, really, more of a red doormat with UNITED emblazoned across it — yet I still ached with the pain of class distinctions and preferential treatment. These elite’s path was not any different than economy or business; it was a mere three square feet of dingy carpet and a section or two of velvet rope, but I was still sad. Thankfully I could not ponder too much on my place in the world for fear of losing my place on the plane, as the line was moving fast, and many people of the aged nature discussed above were proceeding menacingly forward, faces set and sharp elbows out to the sides. I managed to reach the plane, crossing gingerly over the threshold between tunnel thingie and aviation vehicle as I noticed the gap was just big enough to accept my plummeting glasses were they to slip form my nose (as they are wont to do on account of my naturally disgusting face). I reached my seat, slid my carry-on into the overhead bin with the satisfaction of measuring well done, and stood awkwardly in the way as the man occupying the aisle seat of my row sat blithely on, utterly oblivious to my pitiful “Excuse me, sir?”s until a brusque flight attendant proclaimed loudly that I was holding up the line. The man finally stood, and I climbed awkwardly past him to my window seat. I sat, incredibly insecure and eyeing my rowmate with creepy sidelong glances. I learned to my chagrin that I would be unable to open the window shades, as our flight would be approaching the sunrise and natural light would hamper the other passengers’ plane naps. One consolation was the in-flight entertainment. Adorable screens unfolded from the ceiling, and the safety video began to play. Apparently I was the only passenger unnerved that the film malfunctioned and our safety briefing was never finished. Fortunately they had them working again by the time the flight started — it didn’t even matter that I couldn’t figure out the headphones, because I knew the 30 Rock (!) episode so well for dialogue to be unnecessary if I concentrated. But my efforts were once again thwarted as the small child seated directly in front of me was terribly upset and vocalized it loudly. I am normally a very compassionate person, but misbehaving children that get in the way of me watching the greatest show on telivision just destroy my resolve. to resist tearing my hair out, I attempted sleep. It was uneasy and tossy-turny, but it was something. I managed to avoid drooling on myself, so I felt pretty accomplished. Then we were descending, and I grabbed my oh-so-clunky luggage and followed the other, more competent passengers to the baggage claim (I was such an enthusiastic stalker that I almost followed my fellow red-eyes to their connecting flight, nearly skipping my luggage altogether. I turned in a wide arc, reaching my baggage claim (3) and eventually my baggage itself (for a long while I was anticipating a wholly different suitcase, as I had been using a distincitive blue monstrous thing for the past week, only to realize as it dumped gracelessly onto the conveyor belt that mine was actually a brown leather number). I then moved one baggage claim over (2) to await the WJMC convoy. It was very lonesome; just me, a kindly looking African American gentleman with a gentle snore, and Flyer TV, the loop of footage advertising the airport and DC tourism. Though the audio was too low for me to really follow Flyer TV’s content, I saw the loop so often that it didn’t matter (and thanks to a particular segment, Film on the Fly, I feel intimately acquainted with the plot of The Switch and I Love You Phillip Morris). I resigned myself to sleep once more, slumped unnaturally over the arm of the connected bank of chairs, neck stiffening regardless of my skillful repurposing of my backpack as a makeshift pillow. I could not enjoy the many shops graicng the vicinity because I could not hobble more than a few feet in any direction with my cargo, and every ten minutes the overhead speakers would warn of the immense security risks of leaving any and all baggage unattended. So I drifted in and out of a restless jetlagged sleep until my fellow WJMCpeople arrived on the scene. I did not immediately introduce myself, as I had no idea how long I had been dozing, mouth gaping and generally unattractive as my colleagues looked on. This decision turned out to be even more embarrassing than I could have imagined, as the convoy showed up soon thereafter and could not find me (I was facing the Flyer TV screen, they were facing away from the magnificent entertainment), eventually calling my parents in a panic as to my whereabouts. It was all eventually sorted out, but it was mortifying all the same. We got on the bus to George Mason, where the intimidatingly extroverted people I had the pleasure of calling company began discussing politics. I will not refer to this too deeply, as I am sane; I will merely suggest that people research topics before forming opinions, particularly when scientific evidence directly contradicts their positions. But I digress. We reached the college, where I received the welcoming spiel and set up my room and blog. Which brings us to the present. I apologize for any greivous misspellings or bad grammar (particularly concerning tense) and wish to correct an earlier mistake: the reference to “De plane, de plane” is actually from Fantasy Island, not Gilligan’s Island (thanks, Dad!). I may have forgotten some crucial details, but that’s the rub.