So my brush with the Joys of Business Travel got even better when, at about 8:30 the night before my 6:30 a.m. flight, I got a call from the senior management type whom I was traveling with, telling me that our flight had been canceled and he was trying to get us on another flight that would leave around the same time but would involve connecting in Chicago. It turned out that it was some weird code-share thing that required us to get our tickets from US Air but check in at United. US Air’s Website doesn’t mention the ticketing part, though—they just tell you to check in at United, which is what I did. It’s a long story, but due to the kindness of various airport personnel (a rarity, I know, but Missourians are the friendliest people in the world, I swear. Seriously, even the postal workers. Even the motor vehicles workers. It’s downright weird, in a good way), I didn’t miss the plane, though I came very close. Usually, when I travel on my own, I’m ridiculously punctual, but I couldn’t sleep the night before my trip, and I just wasn’t moving very efficiently on Wednesday morning. I was having horrible visions of missing the plane and losing my job, because I had the presentations that we needed for the meeting, and the guy I was traveling with is a managing partner, and…it just wouldn’t have been good. But all was fine in the end, despite having to walk 90 miles across O’Hare carrying my laptop and all the presentations and my suitcase. Fine for me, at least; the stupid airline managed to lose the managing partner’s bag en route to Philadelphia, and of course we weren’t staying in Philadelphia; in the end, we were only there for about three hours. The partner also told me that he had gotten an automated recording about the flight being canceled, with no other information—not even an 800 number for rebooking. And US Air wonders why it’s in bankruptcy…
Anyway, that’s not the point of this post. The point of this post is that in spite of the unexpectedness of the trip, and in spite of the way it disrupted my whole schedule (meaning this coming week is going to be busier than it would have been if I hadn’t lost two days last week), it was still a very good trip, partly because both clients were good, smart people who know what they want and know what they’re doing, but mainly because I got to spend time in New York, aka home. I’ve gone on about this many times before, of course, but I’m still always a little bit surprised at the effect that just being in the city—even at Penn Station waiting for a cab on a raw, windy night after a long day of meetings and lugging all my junk with me—has on me, instantaneously. It’s home, and as much as I feel settled here in many ways, and as much as I appreciate the low cost of living and easy pace of life here on the Plains, I miss feeling truly at home on a regular basis. I love New York in the winter, too, especially when it’s only mildly wintery, as it was this last week. Just being out and walking in the middle of everyone and everything…it just feels right, just makes sense somehow.
This time around, I met people from our New York office for the first time, and on hearing that I’m a native New Yorker, all of them said the same thing: “We do have a New York office, you know—why don’t you move out here?” And for the first time, I felt that doing so is really what I’m striving for; it didn’t seem quite as far-fetched or improbable as it has in the past. (I’d be the only one doing what I do in the NYC office, which might be kind of isolating, but then again, they have a real need for someone in my role in that office, especially with big, New York-based clients like the one we were meeting with—a lot of the things we discussed with them could be accomplished much more efficiently if there were a user experience person physically present. This new resolve on my part doesn’t change the basic facts of the situation, like having two big dogs who wouldn’t be happy in an apartment, but for the first time, I started to feel like maybe obstacles like that weren’t as insurmountable as I’ve convinced myself they are. (There’s doggie day care, for example, and barker-breakers to make them better neighbors. And so on.)
Plus the doorman in my family’s apartment building, who’s known me for most of my life (literally—we moved to that apartment in 1971, so he’s known me longer than just about anyone that I’m not related to), started talking to me about how he’s seeing my dad show signs of aging, and it’s not like that’s news to me, but it’s a reminder of one of the best reasons to move back home. I know it’s not going to happen tomorrow, might not even happen this year. But I’m going to get there. I feel more certain of that now.
And this time, once I get back there, I’m not leaving again. It’s one of the great ironies of my life—one that I can find amusing if I look at it objectively, even if it also drives me a little bit crazy—that after all the years I spent in Minneapolis trying to persuade my first husband to move to NYC, I left and went back to the Midwest only a little more than a year after finally making it back. (That he’s still there, and loving the city, just adds to the irony.) But maybe you can go home again after all. We’ll find out, I guess.