Where Vivid Narratives Live

Receiving an airline travel voucher was one of the bright spots during my protracted, miserable return from a fabulous two-week Ghana vacation. I cashed that bad boy in before its expiration date, locking in a relatively low rate prior to the Iran “War,” which surged fuel costs and subsequent higher ticket prices.

The night before my flight, the government miraculously avoided another partial shutdown and paid TSA workers.

Appropriately, my journey began on the first of May AKA “May Day,” as many factors in my life clamored for a much-deserved vacation.

I drove nearly 90 minutes to a hotel close to the airport, parked my car, then caught their airport shuttle. After breezing through the security line, my biggest challenge was finding a working outlet to charge my phone.

Due to my second flight being delayed because of storms in Austin, I leisurely ate lunch while streaming “Queer Eye.” Throughout my visit, people thanked me for bringing the warmth and sunshine to the Lone Star State. Took it back with me when I left a few days later.

I’d wisely selected window seats for both flights. For the first flight, there was an empty middle seat. Wasn’t so lucky on the second flight. A man with his two-year old son held down that middle seat. In order to place luggage in the overhead bin, that dad placed his son in the middle seat. The toddler took one look at me and burst out crying.

Good to know that I hadn’t lost my touch!

The toddler eventually stopped crying, but never took a nap. The plane had no screens on seat in front of us to select entertainment. That poor dad had to entertain his son the entire time.

Just like the first flight, the second flight landed with a thud. I looked at the toddler and asked him why wasn’t he crying over that hard landing. He just looked at me with those big brown eyes with a hint of a smile.

Throughout the flight, the toddler had randomly pointed at a woman and asked, “Doni?” Then, his father would answer, “Yes.”

Once I had internet access again, I discovered that the toddler had been speaking Italian.

Like a dream, I picked up my checked luggage, then headed out to get my rental car. The only hitch was that one out of three elevators worked. After waiting far longer for an elevator than my luggage, I went to the car rental place on the third floor only to wait even longer although I was next in line.

The couple in front of me set out to prove that two heads weren’t better than one. During my interaction with the employee, I zipped through his upgrade questions. He then told me that I had to go to the third floor.

“I thought I was ALREADY on the third floor!” He just smiled and directed me out the door to go three floors higher.

Fortunately, the rental car wasn’t too technologically advanced. I made it to my friend’s house in 23 minutes. I always joke that she’s my third mother, after Mom and my older sister who thinks she’s my mom.

She had the Malbec ready. Followed my first glass of wine by a humanizing shower.

After a good night’s rest, I had breakfast tacos with the freshly made tortillas third mom had picked up that Saturday morning. Then, I took my first capoeira class in several years.

I’ve told people that pole dancing was just as strenuous as capoeira, but several minutes into the class, I remembered why I’d stopped training: I’d slowed down. In that class, which was supposed to include kids, I was both slow and out of practice. I’d counted on the presence of kids to slow down the pace. Instead we went full speed ahead.

During the warm up, I thought I was going to have a heart attack. The feeling passed after a few minutes. Despite avoiding a medical emergency, I didn’t spar at the end of class.

I used to train with half the capoeiristas who were there. Got to reconnect with some after class when we ate at a Mexican restaurant. From the moment I tasted that spicy, flavorful salsa, I laughed that many people in Fayetteville would choke. Whenever I visit Austin again, I’ll skip the class and meet them for lunch instead.

That evening, I regrouped and attended “Austin Is a Poem,” featuring Ebony Stewart. As usual, she brought the house down with her mixture of humor and poignant messages embedded in clever wordplay, and periodic staccato delivery.

She never appeared on my monthly, theme-inspired spoken word and storytelling show, “The Austin Writers Roulette,” but I’d send her notifications every month and handed her a business card-sized calendar of themes every year. As soon as she turned around, she immediately recognized me, giving me a big hug.

On Sunday morning, I met with a friend who I’ve known for a few years from a biweekly virtual meeting we both attend to discuss race-based issues.

Her comments usually resonated with me during the meetings. Hanging out at one of her favorite watering holes was even more entertaining.

Since third mom had driven us to the restaurant and we were going bra shopping afterwards, her spouse caught an autonomous vehicle. I’d seen many of those cars last night while driving to and from the poetry event, but this was the only one I had the opportunity to take a picture of since I wasn’t driving.

As I figured, when I got behind the wheel again to drive us to our soul food dinner date, I spotted another fleet of autonomous vehicles now that I wasn’t in the position to take a picture.

We had a lively, engaging dinner, starting out with a beet-a-rita, a sweet, powerfully tequila-laden drink. All except one person had participated in The Roulette.

Before leaving, one friend gifted a Seven Sisters rose branch to anyone who wanted it. Not only do I have brown thumb, but there was no way I would take any vegetation on an airplane. Flying was already a precarious endeavor. No need to risk having to quarantine because of a plant.

The next morning, the top of my thighs still throbbed once I made it to hot yoga. Prior to COVID, I took classes with that studio five times a week. In addition to participating in a 60-minute class, I’d hoped to see one of the owners. Turned out, I’d blocked him in the driveway.

The manager on duty, came out and instantly recognized me. Thank goodness I’d not changed too much nor was incognito with my latest pair of birth control glasses. She told me that I could leave my car where it was.

I did much better in yoga class than capoeira, but I was still out of practice with 25 out of 26 yoga poses. The easy fix: do a half set on my own just like I used to do prior to moving to Austin in 2009.

Later that afternoon, I met another writer friend at a restaurant known for its barbecue, especially brisket. She and I strategically chose a table near the order line as other people in our party straggled in.

After knowing one another for nearly four years virtually, I finally met one of my cousin’s long-time friends and creative partners in real life. He and his spouse moved to Austin six months before I’d moved away.

For a second evening in a row, I enjoyed a beet-based cocktail. “Beet ‘Em to the Punch” was a wonderful after-dinner beverage.

Afterwards, most of us went to a nearby coffee bar, which was far more than that. We met yet another poet and sat outside with our drinks, away from the live bluegrass band, so we could talk without screaming. Ideas flew around the table since all of us had produced different creative endeavors.

The last thing on my itinerary that I’d sent out prior to arriving in Austin was breakfast on Tuesday. Fortunately, three other friends met me there. Again, they had either participated on or attended The Roulette. Sometimes, one can fall into a nostalgia trap. Yet, I used the reminiscing as motivation to migrate eight year’s worth of Roulette summaries to this blog.

For my last dinner in Austin, we went to one of third mom’s favorite local restaurants. Good timing since Cinco de Mayo landed on a Taco Tuesday.

Before moving away from Austin, I’d ordered takeout from this restaurant. The food was as delicious as I’d remembered with the added bonus of dining in with good friends and a house margarita made with one of my favorite tequilas: 1800.

Since my return flight was in the early afternoon, I had plenty of time to gas up my rental car, paying the most per gallon in memory.

Fortunately, I needed little more than a fourth of a tank since most of the things I’d done were clustered around South Austin.

The joys of catching an early afternoon flight on a Wednesday: 1) sleeping in; 2) missing morning rush traffic; 3) allowing enough time to gas up the rental car before turning it in; 4) leisurely going through security.

Now for the downsides: 1) first flight was delayed for 20 minutes, narrowing the time I had to go from one gate to the other to about five minutes; 2) despite sprinting to the other gate, they had closed the door although the plane was still there and hadn’t pushed back yet; 3) those gate agents were far more concerned with disappearing than actually assisting me; 4) I had to handle my own rebooking because one of the gate agents hastily handed me a card to scan the QR code.

If I can help it, I’ll never fly on United again nor have a layover in Houston. This was the second time in a row that United has been woefully unimpressive with their customer service. Not only did their delay cause me to miss the connecting flight, but they also informed me that since the delay was due to weather rather than a mechanical issue, they wouldn’t give me hotel nor food voucher.

Well, fuck them!

Just wonder how long it will take their horrible customer service to fail like Spirit Airlines.

Some decision-makers at the Houston Airport thought it was a good idea to not allow stranded passengers to stretch out and sleep when screwed by airlines. I tried a variety of failed positions in a row of seats with fixed, extremely hard armrests.

The only entertainment break came while sitting askew in one of the massage chairs that had metal rollers uncomfortably jutting out in the back of the chair. I streamed Kimmel on my laptop and shared the screen with another woman who sat in the adjacent uncomfortable massage chair.

My gate changed twice, necessitating me to trek between terminals A and B via Skyway. The sad irony was that had I remained in A, I could’ve had a good night’s rest because there were a variety of different chairs associated with restaurants that were accessible even though the restaurants were closed.

To top things off, periodically and unnecessarily, those stupid safety announcements blared over the PA even though there weren’t any flights. The whole thing seemed like a scheme to prevent stranded passengers from sleeping.

Every successive plane seemed older than the last. My bottom line, as usual, at least we didn’t crash.

Once again, everything was smooth once I reached RDU: picked up my checked bag, caught my hotel shuttle back to my car and drove home in the rain.

Once home, I discovered a package from a friend who lived in Wimberley, TX. Our schedules hadn’t aligned for us to visit with one another, but Mom and I enjoyed his gift of pickles and onions.

Good thing I’d had a fantastic vacation because with the current high prices and sorry customer service, I’m definitely staying close to home.

I bought my car brand new in 2009. I aggressively paid it off because I hated the idea of having yet another bill.

I fondly remember shredding all the car payment booklets that the bank periodically sent, encouraging me to make regular payments.

As a matter of fact, I’ll never forget the time I proudly told one of the bank administrators that I was paying more than double in car payments to be out of debt faster.

She looked at me sternly and said, “We want you to make your regular payments.”

The bank lost money in the form of interest every time I made an overpayment. The most memorable detail about interaction was that the banker was another Black woman, who I foolishly thought would celebrate with me.

All skinfolk ain’t kinfolk. She was first and foremost a banker and wanted all the money. Well, so did I. Plus, fuck the bank.

I don’t remember the year the radio stopped working, but it was long after I’d paid the car off. Even so, I refused to spend nearly a thousand dollars to replace it. Instead, I started listening to audiobooks on my phone while driving.

At one point, perhaps when my car was about 15 years old, the dealership, where I got the oil changed, started telling me that I could get a great deal on a newer car. I informed them that unless they guaranteed that the newer car came with no payments like the one I had, I didn’t want it.

After all, I only paid for occasional maintenance, which was much cheaper than a regular payment.

I always joked that I’d drive my car until the tires fell off. I discovered another situation which motivated me to contemplate buying a preowned car: the car itself had locked me out.

Do you know how it feels to have your car keys in your hand and STILL not able to unlock the door? It’s like the car is rebuking you.

My work around was to unlock the front passenger’s door, then reach over to unlock the driver’s door. OK, so that got me in the car, but was embarrassing enough to start me researching preowned cars. That hourlong exercise led me to call the dealership to see how much fixing the door would cost.

What? Around $400? Done!

Once again, I spared myself from returning to the car payment hamster wheel. For now.