Have You Found Yourself Camped Out

As a teenager, I found myself visiting the Atlanta Airport lots -- I had an inside contact who would phone to let me know when the celebrity groups were arriving. I managed to meet Peter & Gordon once and there were other celebrities I rushed to greet. I imagined how exciting it would be for me when I took my first flight. I imagined sitting in first class or the budget class, eating lunch on the plane and getting great service. How silly. That would never happen now. Gone are the days of hanging out at the airport, and gone are the days of special treatment -- now, it is more like camping out -- just to catch a plane to your destination.

Now that I am a travel writer, I have experienced camping out at the airport many times. Once, I left Des Moines Iowa on an early morning flight. Arriving in Atlanta, I sat at the Atlanta Airport awaiting my plane for over seventeen hours. When I arrived at Atlanta Airport, I rushed to the gate because my plane was scheduled to leave in twenty minutes. Rushing to the gate, I arrived, expecting to hop on the next plane to Charleston. That did not happen. The gate had changed and so off I went -- rushing to another gate -- expecting that I would miss my plane. Upon arrival at that gate, I was informed the plane hadn't arrived and it would probably be here at 7:20pm. I looked at my watch -- 6:45pm. So, I had time. I settled down in a chair, plopping my carry on luggage next to me. The wait began. At 7:20, we were informed our flight hadn't arrived again. And so the story goes. I waited. I chatted with other frustrated people. I watched children dancing around the gate, obviously restless and tired. I read a newspaper left by someone. Recognizing my own boredom, I reached for my Blackberry and I did something I detest. Text messaging. I am of the generation who believes a telephone is for conversations, not texting, but it is a great way to communicate -- if you prefer the language of RU there? LOL. And all of the other acronyms used in texting. Sometimes when I get a text, I have to decipher what is being shared in those abbreviations. Texting? No, not me. But on that night, since I was so tired and restless, I texted every friend I had in my cell phone.

7:20pm passed. The flight was changed to 8:45pm. And 9:15pm. 10:20pm. Enough of this. I approached the desk to inquire as to what was the delay. "We're waiting for the plane to arrive. If it doesn't arrive before 10:30 we will have to cancel until tomorrow morning. The Charleston Airport is under construction and flights are not allowed to land after midnight." Since I am a bit of a skeptic, I decided that my arrival home, to snuggle up in my bed probably would not happen tonight. Yes, it was a rainy night and I realized that storms such as a rainy night in Georgia create delays, but I was tired. I wanted to go home. I had been at the Atlanta Airport since 6:15. Charleston was only a five hour drive from Atlanta. I should've rented a car, I thought to myself, but then I remembered one piece of my luggage was on a plane. Just what plane was the question.

The clock continued ticking away. I watched two lovers smooching and touching. Young love, I thought to myself. How nice and sweet. An older gentleman was snoring two rows away from my seat. The life and times of camping out at the airport.

Seventeen hours after arriving at Atlanta Airport, my flight loaded. Finally I would get home to rest. When the plane finally landed in Charleston the rain was torrential. Awaiting my luggage at baggage claim I noticed many people complaining about how wet and heavy their luggage was. I was thankful my luggage was light, containing only three outfits. When I lifted it from baggage claim it felt as if it contained bricks! When I got home, I opened it, discovering everything inside was soaked! The luggage had been left outside on the tarmac and was filled with rain. Two blouses were faded and ruined. I contacted Delta only to be told, "Sorry for the inconvenience." So much for customer service and hospitality!

Last weekend a friend's husband was scheduled to leave Greensboro, NC in route to Nashville, TN. He left for the airport in ample time. His flight was scheduled to leave at 4:15, he entered the airport before 2pm. His flight was delayed due to weather, so he would arrive later than expected. My friend stayed in touch by checking the flight on Delta.com. and texting her husband. Each time she realized the flight was delayed she sent anothe text, and all during the day she phoned me to let me know of his delays. She knows I don't like to text! The phone is so much more convenient! Earlier in the week I suggested he might consider driving, instead of flying. My rule is if I can reach the destination within ten hours, I will drive. He spent the night camped out at the airport -- arriving in Nashville the next afternoon. No apologies from the airlines. No compensation. Nothing. Exhaused, my friend told me the next time he would drive to Nashville, not fly.

Years ago, flying was so convenient and quick. Didn't we have torrential storms in those years? And who would ever believe that you might actually 'camp out at the airport?' So much for flying. I think I'll drive, or take a train.

Trials and Tribulations of a Writer

In 2005, I was downsized from a career in education. The campus where I worked for many years chose to move to a different state. Since my husband had a good job, making much more than I did the decision to remain in South Carolina was an easy one. And so, when my position downsized, I closed the window, locked it, gave my key to the office back, locked my heart away and walked away with a sigh of relief. June 2005, I kissed Corporate America goodbye, and I haven't looked back. I believe in the philosophy of 'when a door closes, God opens a window.'







My friends were concerned. Just what would Barbie P. Cooper do without a life where she worked morning, noon and night (including weekends) recruiting, administering and working my fingers to death to recruit and service college students. It is true, I was married to that position and in 2005, I chose to divorce it, close the door and pray that God would open a window to a new career as a travel writer.







I read reports stating that I should have at least three years of $$ stashed away, to survive. I laughed, while my fingers shook with fear. My husband thought I was nuts. On one occasion he suggested I needed to find another job because I had nothing promised or committed in my writing career. To those of you who do not know me, let's just say, I can be very stubborn, independent and persistent. I sent queries to publications, marketing my writing services and story angles. At times, I stood by the mail box, tapping my toes impatiently, in hopes that today a letter would arrive and I would become the next successful writer.







DREAM ON.







Nevertheless, I have taught myself self discipline and I work extremely hard to market, and publicize to get my name in print. Success isn't something that happens overnight.







Flash Forward to 2009







It has been four years of pulling my hair out, screaming my lungs out on the highest mountain (and there aren't any mountains in my home in Mt. Pleasant, SC) talking to my pups and doubting, but I believe that 'good things come to those who wait.'







Now friends encourage me, recognizing that this year appears to be the year that I might achieve a few of the goals established. I made a promise to myself that this would be the year, or this time, if I didn't succeed, I would definitely throw in the towel and find something else to do. Maybe I will spend more time on the beach, in hopes I will find a "Message in a bottle."







Years ago, when I was in college, an English professor wanted to know if anyone in his class thought, or wanted, to be a writer. Silly, gullible me! Always wanting to be the center of attention, I raised my hand. The professor reminded me of a George Carlin look alike, complete with graying hair, emaciated body frame, and stress filled, swollen eyes. He approached me.







"So, it is you who wants to be a writer."







"Yes," I replied. My heart was slowly crawling down into my toe nails. "I am a writer. I published my first story in the third grade of elementary school."







Intrigued by my reaction, the professor turned to the class. "Did you hear her, class. She published her first story in kindergarten." He smirked, rubbing his bushy beard.







"Third grade," I interrupted.







He laughed. "So, Ms. Cooper --- tell me --- do you love to write?"







"Ms. Perkins-Cooper," I spat. "You may call me Barbie, and to answer your question, yes, I love to write. It's my passion."







Within seconds I regretted my response.







"Oh class. Just listen. She loves to write. It is her passion, and her name is Barbie.... Humph! You are not a writer. Real writers HATE TO WRITE."







Defeated, I chose to hang my head and slide under my chair, hoping and praying the George Carlin wanna be would pick on someone else.







Now, years and many rejections later, I understand what the professor was teaching me, and I must say, he is right. True writers HATE to WRITE.







To those of you new to the industry, writing is an arduous task and there are many days where I would love to surf on the computer, play games, and feed my addiction to e-mail. It is so true. Writers hate to write -- especially when the words refuse to enter the brain, or when we struggle to send out queries, market our talents and work on assignments. Previously, when this happened, I would bite my fingernails, gnawing each manicured acrylic beauty until they were chipped and ugly. I would stare out the window, and when Shamus and Shakespeare tapped my foot for attention, I ignored them. Now, I have learned the art of inspiration and motivation. When stressed, I take a break. Grabbing the leashes, I prepare the dogs for a walk, while thoughts dance inside my head. Breathing in the sea breezes and fresh aromatic senses of the world outside, I am able to work out the hooks, characters and stories. Arriving home, I rush to the computer while my fingers dance a finger ballet across the keyboard.





Working as a travel writer, I am able to see and appreciate the beauty of life, characters, and the products of the struggles of life. I have stayed at some of the finest hotels and bed and breakfast inns along the East and Gulf coast. I suppose you could say I am living my dream now -- a dream that took me years to fulfill, but like all things in life, good things come to those who wait.





If you have a passion for writing, don't just dream about it. Like the Nike slogan says, "Just do it." There will be times of self doubt and defeat, but when this happens, dust yourself off, smile your biggest, most welcoming smile and whisper, "This too shall pass." Life is not easy. It is how we choose to believe in ourselves and our self worth that help to develop us into the person we want to become. We can choose to give up, defeated, or we can take one step forward, continuing the journey. Life is an adventure. Just do it!