I am writing this from Cody, Wyoming. All I knew about Cody before coming here was that Bill Bryson came here once and made fun of its commercialism and pointed out that Buffalo Bill wasn’t even from here, let alone Wyoming. So I was not surprised that when I landed there were huge signs everywhere advertising Buffalo Bill.
Mostly, I was just glad to be off the three-row plane that jostled me the entire way from Denver. I could have handled the tiny plane. I could have handled the turbulence. What almost pushed me right over the edge (a short fall, I know) was the irascible brat behind me. He kicked my seat over and over and over. I was seriously considering turning around and telling him that if he didn’t stop kicking my seat I was going to murder his parents in front of him.
But I’m passive aggressive so I just heaved a huge, dramatic sigh and squiggled around in my seat until the little shit’s father finally realized what he was doing and told him to stop.
So anyway, Cody. I get off the airplane. On a metal ramp. Into gale force winds. And then had to walk all the way to the door.
I got inside and blinked to fix my dry contacts and look for a rental car sign. Like a sign from the heavens it was directly in front of me. Next to the other rental car places. I stared. At the counter I asked for some basic directions and the all-American goofy guy got out a highlighter and showed me my hotel on the map. “You can’t miss it,” he said eagerly. “It’s really the only road in town.”
“Thanks,” I said, mildly horrified. “When I bring it back Saturday is it hard to find?”
He gestured down a short hallway. “This is actually the whole airport.” This time his eagerness to help was tinged with apology. I looked down the hallway and back at him. The airport was significantly smaller than the middle school I attended. “Welp, thanks,” I said, slowly backing out the door in fear.
I found my rental car and threw my things into the trunk with the help of the gale force winds. Thanks, wind. Then I proceeded to spend five minutes hitting switches until I found out how to adjust the steering wheel height from “small child who is probably allowed to drive here oh God the country is scary” to “moderately tall for a woman” height. I cleaned the windshield twice during the process. I didn’t even bother with the radio. I don’t know how pilots do it. It all seems like a big lie. No one can track that many switches. They can’t possibly all do something.
At least this time I didn’t smash the brake while looking for the clutch. I’m getting better at driving rentals.
I made it to the hotel, which was complete with a taxidermied (okay, maybe it was just a stuffed animal, but who could know a thing like that) deer with enormous antlers and a Santa hat, and Christmas tree in the lobby. (Welcome to Wyoming, I guess.) There was no elevator, so I walked all the way up to the second floor and then neither of my keys worked, so I had to go back downstairs and try it again. I have yet to stay in a Holiday Inn where I do not have trouble with the keys working. Holiday Inn Express, all fine. Holiday Inn, no fucking keys. I’m beginning to develop a complex. Get it together, Holiday Inn. I don’t need this.
Let’s just hope I can make it to Saturday without having to drive in the snow.