How picking my wife up at Orlando Airport suddenly got very complicated.
Waiting for the flight to arrive in Orlando
It was a foolproof plan. I knew it takes about ten minutes to get out of Orlando Airport once cases have been salvaged from the paranoia-inducing conveyor belt. I gave my wife instructions. “Phone me when you’ve got your bags, and I’ll come and pick you up out the front.”
Whilst waiting, I went for dinner in a Cuban restaurant that the SatNav told me was a mere 8 minutes away from the airport. What could possibly go wrong?
The call came, I hurtled to the hire car and ploughed on, ready to rescue my fair maiden after her ordeal at the hands of an economy class transatlantic flight.
A wrong turn
Alas, there is one major flaw with SatNavs when it comes to busy, multi-direction junctions – it takes careful study to work out which road is yours. It quickly became clear that I’d followed the wrong strand of spaghetti. I was on the Florida Turnpike, trundling five miles in the wrong direction to the next available exit. This spat me out in the gridlocked traffic that Orlando, Florida, is notorious for at theme park kicking out time.
An hour after setting off, cursing and reduced to primeval howling, I drove past the Cuban restaurant I’d been waiting in. My phone sat in my pocket, ringing, taunting and saying: “You should have just gone to the short term car park” via the medium of vibration.
The forgotten driving licence
As a general rule, the combination of meeting at the airport and rental cars tends to be a disaster. Our first time was in Melbourne. She emerged with a confession: “You’re probably going to kill me for this, but I’ve left my driving licence at home.” We spent the next three weeks driving 3,500 miles across the Australian outback to Darwin, terrified of encountering a police car during her stint behind the wheel.
Hiring a car undoubtedly introduces levels of freedom that you can’t get with public transport. There’s the freedom to go round in circles trying to find a parking space, there’s the freedom to be outrageously gouged by American hotels and restaurants for their valet parking ‘service’ and there’s the freedom get increasingly worked up about what that rattling noise might be.
The quirks of rental cars
It also brings hitherto unknown talents to the fore. From the first cry of “oh this is bloody ridiculous” – usually uttered within half an hour of putting the key in the ignition – a certain creativity in inventing new compound swear words emerges. You also find yourself pleasantly surprised at just how many drink cans, water bottles and coffee cups you can throw over your shoulder onto the back seat before the view is impeded.
Then there’s the fun of working out where everything is because you never thought to ask where the full beam, wipers and windscreen heater are. These are things to frantically scramble for when the time comes, as you accidentally indicate in all directions, change radio station and honk the horn. It’s a panic only matched by realising you don’t know whether you’re driving a petrol or diesel vehicle when you go to fill up.
The express pick up area
Finally, I make it to the elusive Orlando Airport and encounter a barrier by the express pick up area. “Do you have an e-tag?” the guard asks. I do. “No. Not a toll road e-tag. It’s a special kind of e-tag.”
I opt for begging. “I’m an hour and ten minutes late; I told my wife to wait at express pick up. Pleeeeeeeeeease.” No joy.
Ever tried directing someone through an airport you don’t know from the outside, without having a map of said airport or any idea where the person inside it is? It’s no fun.
I blather helplessly into the phone. “Head downstairs to the bit…” There’s a tap on the window, and a stern looking woman in a fluorescent jacket tells me to sling my hook. I’m not allowed to wait here; just pick up someone who’s already at the kerbside.
Laps of Orlando airport
I’m thus reduced to doing laps of the airport, stopping for snatched 30-second phone conversations in various non-parking bays, then being told to move on again. I invent whole new categories of swearing, practice a bit more howling and finally spot my wife stomping out of the doors a full two hours after I was supposed to have collected her.
All that driving around has left us dangerously low on petrol. We pull over at the first pump we see. The cap, of course, is on the wrong side of the car. “Oh this is bloody ridiculous,” we bellow simultaneously.
This story was originally written for National Geographic Traveller.
