Let me share a brief (case) tale of woe with you. This one went down in Cincinnati. The airport there is actually in Kentucky, not unlike the D.C. airports being in Virginia. Returning home from one of the many trips that flew me over the million mile mark, I headed for the baggage claim area. Tired of lugging baggage after a particularly grueling trip, I had checked both my suitcase and my briefcase. I had rarely checked a briefcase before, and never afterward!
Luggage in Cincinnati presents itself high atop the carousels, and then drops down a steep shoot onto the oval conveyor. I quickly retrieved my suitcase and stood waiting for the briefcase to arrive. Soon, I realized that all of my fellow travelers were gone. I stood alone, with the nagging feeling that a Gorilla was watching me from some hidden peep hole, smirking and giggling, knowing what was coming next.
Moments later, my briefcase, or the pile previously known as my briefcase, arrived at the pinnacle of the carousel. Stuffed into a plastic bin, pieces of the briefcase frame jutted out amongst the strewn contents of the case like some bizarre airport sculpture. It hovered for a moment and then came crashing down onto the belt, papers, pens, pocket change and briefcase parts scattering in every direction.
While they eventually agreed to buy me a new briefcase, they insisted on getting their plastic bin back, leaving me to my own resources to get my pile home.