Business trips suck.

Josh
Thursday
9:14 am

I had to take a work-related trip this week. My job doesn’t require a lot of travel, but it seems like I’m on a plane for them at least 4 times per year. And, generally, I don’t like it.

Sure, a lot of people do — a little time away, dining on the company dollar, right? But, for me, nothing ever goes smoothly on a business trip. When you combine my horrible penchant for bad luck with my dislike of certain conventions observed while traveling, the whole thing turns into a stressful, crappy suck-fest. Observe my problems:

Exhibit A: Planes never go where they’re supposed to.

If the jetway connects to something like this, it's your first clue that you shouldn't have bought the "super low fare" option.

Last year, I had to teach a seminar in Tampa, Florida. I booked a direct flight from Utah to Tampa, because I was determined to not have any funny business with missed connections for such a critical thing. Turns out it was one of those “make believe” direct flights that actually stopped in Denver.

During the refueling, there was a mechanical problem and the continuing service was cancelled. After waiting in line with all the other miserable wretches for an hour, they finally came up with a way for me to get to Tampa by 9 a.m. the next morning. It was simple: just wait around Denver for another 6 hours, then catch a flight from Denver to L.A. — spend four hours there in the middle of the night — then fly from L.A. all the way across the country to Tampa. I arrived less than an hour before I was due to begin the seminar. Frosty.

Exhibit B: Awkward one-on-one social interactions.

Generally, I rent cars or take mass transit when away from home. But this particular trip, it made more financial sense to take a cab. And I usually avoid cabs.

Maybe if more cab drivers looked like this, I'd be more comfortable. Where you at, service industry?

You see, I don’t do well in one-on-one engagements with strangers. I’m fine in small groups, or with friends, but put me in any one-on-one role with a person I know I’m never going to see again — hairdressers, shoe shiners, bartenders, cab drivers — and I choke. I think it’s something about the servant-master archetype it sets up — I don’t want to come across as holier-than-thou, but I don’t want to act like I’m trying to hard.

I go from savvy journalist-business traveler to that kid at the junior high dance in about 20 seconds. All of a sudden, it’s like Peter Gabriel is playing on the DJ’s speakers, and I’m dancing with somebody, and I have no idea where to put my hands, or whether I should make eye contact, or small talk, or no talk. Do cab drivers get bored? Am I supposed to talk to them about the weather? Or would they rather just do their own thing? Do I comment about the picture of his kids on the dash? Do I tell him about mine? Am I being snotty by sitting quietly?

Oh, and I don’t know if you know this, but Denver’s airport is basically in Montana. So, on this trip, I had the slowest 45 minute uneasy-fest, until I finally gave in and pulled out the laptop to write.

Exhibit C: I have plain old bad luck.

As I was getting out of the mildewed and dimly-lit taxi cab, my thigh bumped something. Gross, I thought. Keep moving. I went to the hotel’s front counter to check in, when I discovered that my back pocket was empty. The cab was long gone, and so was my wallet. The front desk person was sweet enough to check me in without ID, and when I got to my room, I called the number on the taxi receipt to no avail. No answer at all. I started to sweat, and felt not entirely on this plane — sort of like Marty McFly at the end of “Back to the Future.”

Not really my wallet — the flowers are yellow on mine.

The down-to-earth folk at Denver’s ground transit hub tried to chase down the cab company, but they couldn’t find anyone matching my description. After some panicked ruminating, I pulled an Encyclopedia Brown, and remembered that the name on the cab didn’t line up with the name on the receipt. After tracking down the right cab company, the dispatcher rousted the cabbie out of bed to locate my missing wallet.

He found it, and would return it to me in the morning.

However, I’d already panicked, and cancelled all of my credit cards. So now I have a mountain of paperwork to deal with, and will have to rely on the munificence of others (like my much more responsible wife) to seed me with finances until I can get at least a debit card back.

Exhibit D: I can’t be idle and unconnected.

This is the worst part about air travel. There are huge stretches of times where they expect you to just sit. And wait. This idle time is maddening. Before I can get on a plane, I pack an activity bag that’d make a 6-year-old jealous. Computer, iPod, notepad, pens, pencils, all there, just in case I get bored.

Ah, Skymall: We meet again, old friend. Still trying to ply me with personalized luggage tags, fake outdoor speaker rocks and personal massagers?

The uneasiness sets in after I buckle my seatbelt, and doesn’t really relent until I hear the bing that means I can finally unsheath my portable devices of comfort.

And I have to be careful how I spend that device-free time. There are two inflight magazines on every flight, and I take great care in making sure I pace my reading so that I have enough to last the whole trip. If I aimlessly flip through Skymall, and accidentally make it to the end, I’m going to be completely stressed out that I won’t have enough to read on the return flight.

For instance, a direct flight to Denver means I have four dark times to deal with (two takeoffs, two landings). That means I can read the first third of the in-flight magazine and up to half of Skymall. Why only the first third? The back section doesn’t count.

Oh, and to those detractors who say, “Just go buy a magazine:” I can’t. There’s something about the new, cheaper, paper and easily rubbable ink that makes me feel unclean and uncomfortable.

Exhibit E: Some of the rules don’t make sense.

• Why is it that cell phones have to be turned off as soon as the door closes, but they can be turned on while the plane is still taxiing to the gate after landing?
• Why is it that my laptop is seemingly safer on the floor, where it can slide all over the cabin, instead of being snugly nestled in the little elastic pouch on my seat back?
• Why do I go through the trouble of entering my credit card for the hotel at home, and then they need to see it again when I arrive?
• Why do they wait to deliver the seat belt instructions until after the plane is in motion and they’ve already walked up and down the aisles three times to inspect everybody’s seat belt?