This year, for the first time ever, I am flying on Thanksgiving Day. Given that I’ll be working late into the evening Wednesday night, closing down the office, dotting and crossing the requisite letters, etc. and that I love saving money, flying on the holiday morning makes perfect sense. There is, however, the creeping dread: flying that day leaves no wiggle room. What if there’s a spontaneous snowstorm that closes down the entire East Coast? What if I eat my turkey leg at the Legal Seafood at Logan International—except since that this is a crazy situation stranding me at a “high”-class seafood restaurant in a busy airport, I’d be eating some low-class marlin or something—and never even get to smell homemade stuffing or fill my mouth with entirely too many mashed potatoes?
What if Boston’s notoriously unreliable and lousy, filthy, rotten public transit services decide to shut down en masse—it is a holiday, after all—leaving me with a more unreliable, lousier, filthier, rottener option: taxis. Taxis in Boston are nothing like taxis in Chicago (and New York, as some have informed me); that is to say, they are crazy expensive and almost impossible to find. Given that I live in Somerville, taxis are sparser here than the city. And Cambridge—our more erudite and irrevocably haughty neighbor city—taxis can’t even drop off in Somerville; mind you: the border between Somerville and Cambridge is arbitrary and stupid (so much so the cab drivers don’t even know what’s what).
At this point, I’m just going to assume I’ll be taking a raft from the Aquarium to the airport. It’ll probably be quicker, anyhow.
It’s best I not think about how everything could go wrong. But I’m not that kind of guy. I’ll be monitoring the weather for next Thursday every seventeen minutes until I go to bed Wednesday night.
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