The Vacation Diaries, Part 4 -- Finale

Day 7: "Oh no…not again!"

We pack up and get ready for the drive back through Yellowstone, to fly home from Jackson Hole. We stop by the cousin's house to say goodbye, to find almost everyone with the exception of the Scottish clan asleep. Apparently, the night before was the latest in several rounds of heavy drinking, culminating with adults splashing around in the wading pool and (according to second hand gossip from my mom) a minor round of fisticuffs between a cousin and another cousin's boyfriend.

"Aye," said my Scottish cousin G. "Someone should just dump out that keg, so we don't have to finish it." Ah, family.

Cody is our destination for lunch, since Jak-El decides he needs a cowboy hat just like the one his brother got the day before. I buy one for myself for good measure.

Then, we're on the road again. The drive today goes by much quicker than the first trip, thanks to no construction or traffic accidents. We see Lake Yellowstone, and stop at a waterfall for a quick hike and some pictures.

We continue on through the Grand Teton National Park. Dan-El start screaming desperately for some milk, and finally – after he has a major meltdown – we stop at the first rest area. We score not only milk, but perhaps the best National Park snack ever, a Rice Krispies treat in the shape of a mountain.

The rest of the drive goes by quickly, although everyone is getting a bit bored of the beautiful scenery. Oh, a mountain. Look, a mountain. Hey wait…is it? Yep, another mountain!



We finally pull into the parking lot Wagon Wheel Motel in Jackson Hole. Suddenly we hear Dan-El making a sound no parent wants to hear. The combination of the 98-degree heat, the screaming for milk, the milk itself, the Rice Krispies treat and some mustard-flavored pretzels is not sitting well. "Urgh, urgh…."

And there it is. A spectacular amount of vomit spews out of the child. It's official: Something about Jackson Hole, WY makes my kids puke.

I rush to check in so we can get to our room, then we unload the SUV and clean the child and the car.

It's a quieter night than we expected. Rather than roaming about the town one last time, we decide it might be safer to get some take out from the diner next to the Motel, do laundry and watch TV. We manage to time things right so we get to see the season premiere of "Doctor Who." All is good.

Day 7: "Gee, Isn't Their Slogan Something About Friendly Skies? Bull."

We pack up again and decide to get breakfast in the diner, which is the usual chaos of Dan-El running around the restaurant like a maniac. Then, we rush to the airport, where we rush around like maniacs.

We know we should have arrived earlier, but still, the lines at the airport are insane. No curbside check-in, and the self serve kiosks are a waste of time. We're resigned to the fact that we're going to miss our flight, until someone yells out our flight number and asks if there's anyone still not checked in for that flight.

Scrambling to the front of the line, we're checked in and given three seats together, with a fourth in the next row. No problem, this is only a one hour flight to Denver. We rush through security, and move with a level of panic typically seen only on contestants of "The Amazing Race." Quick, take your shoes off! Walk through there! Put your shoes back on! Wha—where the hell did your other shoe go?

After being reprimanded by a flight attendant because we hadn't pre-checked our stroller (when the bleep were we supposed to do that???), we get on the plane and slump into our seats. I take a look at our boarding passes for the next flight from Denver to Boston and notice that they've given us four seats that are separated all over the plane. We don't even have two in the same row.

The husband and I fantasize about letting our kids sit with strangers for four hours, so we can sleep ("No, really, they're very, very well behaved. The taser is just a precaution…"), but then think better of it.

As soon as there's a flight attendant manning our departure gate in Denver, I rush over and explain the situation to him, and why we need our seats to be two and two, as we had originally booked months earlier. "Okay, we'll put you on the list with the rest of the people who need seat reassignments and call you," he says.

We take turns watching the bags and chasing the kids up and down the moving walkways to let them burn off some steam. Still, no call. We get the kids an early dinner from McDonald's. Still, no call.

I go back to the gate. "We're working on it," he says, giving me a "how dare you bother me look.

The plane starts boarding and we wait. I ask again. "I'm working on it," he hisses at me.

When then make the final boarding call and there's hardly anyone left near the gate, we troupe up to Mr. Prissy en masse. "What about our seats?" I ask.

"Oh, yeah," he says with a shrug. It's clear that this point that he has done nothing to get our seats reassigned. "You have to get on the plane and ask the flight attendant to help you do that."

Swell. We drop the stroller near the cabin door and explain our plight to the flight attendant, who graciously helps us find four seats that are two and two together, and in rows that are back to back, which is pretty much what we had initially booked in the first place. Some passengers are gracious about helping us, others shoot us dirty looks, but what can you do.

We settle in, and the kids sleep through most of the flight.

Our reserved taxi is waiting for us at the airport, and we get home around 2 a.m.

We learn a couple of days later that we were lucky to make it. My 82 year old mom and 80 year old uncle were supposed to fly home two days later, but United cancelled their flights completely, and didn't reschedule them until the next day. And the bastards refused to pay for any of the additional hotel, rental car or food expenses they incurred for the extra travel day.

The moral of this story? Family is swell, and every bad thing you've ever heard about United Airlines? True, true, true.

Happy weekend, everyone.