 For me, insomnia begins three to five days before every birding trip. Deprived of sleep by anxiety and wasted adrenalin, I toss and turn (flail, according to my wife) as birds crisscross my imagination well into morning hours. The uncontrollable salivation doesn't begin until the night before. When I speak in this fashion of a birding trip, I don't mean hopping down to Grand Isle or Venice for the day. I refer, in these circumstances, to very special trips, trips to faraway places held sacred by birders -- Southeast Arizona, Ding Darling, The Valley. |
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| In May of 1995, with a frequent flyer voucher nearing expiration, I made such a trip, solo, to Northern California. I planned to bird the coastal areas between San Francisco and Monterey, Monterey Bay, and Point Reyes National Seashore. For weeks, I studied guides and maps. I had a few sleepless nights in anticipation. Involuntary salivation commenced on the last night -- the night eighteen inches of rain closed New Orleans International Airport for the first time since Hurricane Andrew. I stopped salivating and started sweating. My frequent and frantic calls to the airport for any word on the resumption of service were answered by a computer reporting departure schedules recorded in drier times. About the time I convinced myself the airport wouldn't open -- past salivating, past sweating, certain my dread would cause several important blood vessels in my head to burst -- the skies cleared briefly, and Delta whisked me away toward the west. |
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| I couldn't convince myself that indeed I had made it away until I landed in Salt Lake City for a connecting flight. I had forty minutes to wait, and I spent it staring into reflections on the glass walls of the concourse and into the darkness beyond and dreaming of birds I knew only from pictures in books. Then, in a husky, sexy, overly-polite voice, the lady at the gate announced the cancellation of my flight -- the last flight out of Salt Lake City. |
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| If fate ever takes you to Salt Lake City, a visually spectacular place, do not, under any circumstances, stay at the Airport Comfort Inn. Comfort is a misnomer, and it is nowhere near the airport. But it is a popular place. Every eighteen-wheeler between Kansas City and the West Coast stops there for the night. Some stop at midnight, some at 2:00 a. m., others don't get in until 3:30 or 4:00. While I didn't get much sleep, the 6:00 a. m. taxi to the airport allowed me to start my Utah list: house finch; starling. |
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| With the screech of the jet's tires on the runway in San Francisco, my clenched jaw slackened, the knot on my brow loosened. Now it didn't matter if the wheels fell off or the mother of all earthquakes swallowed the plane and the city, too. At least I would die in California. I had made it. Everything was rosy now. The shuttle bus to Alamo Car Rental was prompt; there was no waiting for a rental agent. The agent, tan and perky, greeted me with a broad smile and asked the expected, "Hiya. May I see your driver's license and credit card?" |
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| "You most certainly may." Perkiness is contagious, and I was in California and everything was right with the world. "And I have a discount voucher from Delta," I added as I handed her the voucher, my American Express card and the stub of the speeding ticket I had gotten chasing birds on Grand Isle. She peered at the ticket stub in a puzzled way for a moment then smiled, even more broadly than before, as if she had just gotten the punchline. |
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| "No, I need your driver's license," she said through a California-girl giggle. |
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| "But that is my driver's license," I said. |
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| "This isn't a driver's license," she replied. |
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| "Is too." |
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| "Is not." |
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| "Is too." Our conversation progressed on this rather erudite level for several minutes until I finally demanded to see the manager. Tiny beads of perspiration were forming on my temples and where my mustache would be if I could grow one. |
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| As he approached, the manager, two or three years younger than the adolescent with whom I had been having a discussion, pulled headphones from his ears and let them drop around his neck. He was looking down at the Walkman on his belt, adjusting it, as he said, "Is there a problem here?" |
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| "I have a rental reserved in my name," I said. |
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| "Yea, but we need a legal driver's license." |
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| "You think this is an illegal license?" |
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| "I've seen licenses from all over, and I've never seen one like that." |
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| "Well, I'm a lawyer, and I assure you this is a valid license. See, it says 'receipt for driver's license and temporary operators permit.'" |
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| "I don't mean to dis you, you being a lawyer, but it says 'receipt for license.'" |
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| "Listen, I came two thousand miles, and unless I can rent a car, my trip is wasted. I can only accomplish what I came here for if I can rent the car Alamo said it would have for me when I got here." |
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| "Sorry, man." |
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| "You don't understand, I have taken four days away from my office to fly out here, and I want a car. Alamo solicited my business by including this voucher with my frequent flyer ticket, and I want a car." |
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| "Can't help you man." |
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| "I am going to sue you and Alamo -- a BIG suit. On the phone, your agent only asked me what state I was licensed in and if I had a credit card. I told her Louisiana and yes, and on that basis I flew two thousand miles. NOW RENT ME A CAR!" |
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| As I rode down highway 101, I tried to forget the scene at Alamo. I was angry with myself for getting so angry. I told myself that I needed to be more patient with people. Those young people were just trying to do their jobs. |
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| "Do yourself a favor," said the cab driver. "They're not testing your common sense, but whether you know what's in the little book. Take a few minutes to read the little book before you take the test. Here we are. San Mateo Motor Vehicle Authority. Good luck." |
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| First I stood in line 6 to get an application and the little book. After I filled out the application, I stood in line 9 and read as much as I could of the little book. Then I surrendered the little book and the application, and I was handed a California driver's license test. I was told to do my best and then go stand in line 14. I moved to a counter near a corner and calling upon seventeen years of experience as a lawyer and more than twenty-five as a driver, I proceeded to flunk the test. Just how many days does one have to register the sale of a motor vehicle in California? I don't know if it was to promote tourism or because I looked as if I had just been sentenced to death by firing squad, but the lady who scored my test, the nicest lady in California, gave me a license anyway. Two conditions were attached: the license was only good for four days and I had to carry on my person the evidence of my miserable failure -- the written test. Don't ask me why. |
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| Refusing to give Alamo my business, or maybe just embarrassed to show my face, I asked for the cabby's advice and he dropped me at Thrifty. I'll forego discussion of the argument that occurred there. For unknown reasons, rental agents are wary of anyone who has had a license confiscated, temporary California license notwithstanding. Just know this: It was necessary to confer forcefully, as forcefully as I knew how, with two agents and the manager before I was finally able to drive away, further west, as far west as the road would take me and then south, south to Monterey. |
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| At Half Moon Bay, a quaint village on the coast, I telephoned the California rare-bird hotline. It was reporting cattle egret and great-tailed grackle. AAAAAAGGGHHH!! |
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| Epilogue: Everything above is true, or nearly so, except the title. Although I lost several hours of my first day to . . . ahem . . . "administrative necessities," I was lucky enough to squeeze in seven hours birding the coast and nearby forests, from Half Moon Bay to Monterey. The pace was hectic -- time-warped by trying to make up for the lost opportunity. But calling it a trip from hell is decidedly inaccurate for all that happened after my call to the hotline. I saw spectacle after spectacle, things I could never forget -- even if I tried. |
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