Alaska: Part One

I am trapped in a flooded parking garage fighting to get to the van. The water is up to my knees and the current keeps making me slip and fall. My boots are soaked and they squirt out water as I run. I'm late. Impossibly late. And if I don't get to the van soon, we will miss our flight. I've got to get to the van and pick up the rest of the band so we can get to the airport...
I wake up in a panic. Its 2:02am. I've been dreaming.

The alarm is set for 3:00am, but there is no use in trying to go back to sleep now. I switch off the alarm, get up, turn on a light and get dressed. I brush my teeth, then pack the brush away in my suitcase. I zip it up and drag it downstairs clunking over each step- too tired to pick the damn thing up all the way. My drowsy elderly cat awaits me at the bottom of the steps, confused by the schedule change, but interested in it's possibilities. I put on some coffee and check email for any developments that might have occurred in the few hours I slept. There is nothing. Then I go outside and back the van into the driveway. I pack the instruments first, then the behemoth case of cds, and finally, my own overstuffed suitcase. I go back inside, give the cat a very, very early breakfast and shut out the lights.

Its now 3:30am, and as I pull out of the driveway, I call Ike to make sure he's up. He reports that he is up physically, but not mentally. I notice there's not much traffic at this time of the day as I make my way through the darkness to his apartment. I call him when I arrive, and quite a little bit of time passes before I finally see him. When he comes out, I'm surprised at the lightness of his load. Ike comes from the "I'll do laundry on the trip" school. With only a two week tour however, I have chosen to take the alternative approach- packing, no, STUFFING my suitcase as full of clothes as possible. Of course, three suits, 9 dress shirts and a pair of cowboy boots only complicates the matter. Ike gets in and I start off to pick up Betse. No wait, Ike has forgotten to pack his dress shirts. I throw it in reverse and he runs back upstairs. He returns with multiple shirts on hangers and says, "I don't know WHERE these are going to go." I inquire as to the stuffing possibilities in his luggage, but he too, has overcrammed his smaller bag to the limit. His solution is to go back and get a smaller computer bag that he can pack full of shirts, and carry on to the flight as a "personal item".

Its just a few blocks to Betse's. She is waiting outside with bags and fiddle ready to go. Like me, Betse is also of the "cram it full, and then cram some more" school. She loads it in and we head out onto the highway to the airport. On the way, Ike carefully rolls his dress shirts and places them in his bag while I fret and worry to no one in particular about the cd suitcase. I'm afraid it is overweight. The night before, I had looked up weight allowances on the airline's website, and the max they allow for a checked bag is 100 pounds. On the way, we stop by and pick up my dad, who will be baby sitting the Brown Clown while we are away. I drive to the airport and park outside the terminal. A Sky Cap is on hand to receive our bags. I tell him, "watch out for this one, it's definitely overweight". He grins at me and yanks it up on the scale. I hold my breath until he says, "Ok, yeah, it will check. You'll have to pay extra, but it will check alright." I exhale and look at the scale. It reads 99.5 pounds.

It is now 5:30am, and we are on our way to Alaska.