As I arrive at the gate for boarding, I realize there's something wrong - the only passengers are crowded around the desk barking into cellphones while the single US Airways attendant tries to look apologetic. You can see it's a well-practiced mask, because it never flinches even as the group around her get angrier. There's a group of twenty-something guys with baseball caps, Raybans and fake Rolexes (who I can only hope were heading for the infield), believing that their flash mob approach can charm her.
We're told the flight is cancelled, and there are no more flights today.
I contemplate the choice between heading back home where I know my sister-in-law and her children are staying for the weekend, and getting on standby for the Vegas flight. Watching the Kentucky Derby from the Grandstand would have been my first choice, but settling in at the Sports Book at the Las Vegas Hilton may turn out to be a half-decent substitute.
Then the pilot emerges, looks at the crowd and - in a first for me as a reluctant traveler - announces that they have changed their minds and that the flight is back on. His explanation: "the plane will now won't be as heavy as we expected", and judging by the bulimic, desperately thin ladies carrying gucci hatboxes that emerge from the nearby bathroom, he's probably right. This is a true story, I swear.
In the UK, Axe - my host for the weekend - is marketed as Lynx, and once ran a series of commercials for Lynx Air, a fictitious men-only airline, where the in-flight entertainment consisted of underwear-clad air hostesses pillow-fighting on a revolving circular bed.
By comparison, US Airways proves to be an epic fail. My stewardess, Helga (I didn't ask, she's wearing a name tag, which disappointingly doesn't say "I'm Helga, Fly Me"), is a statuesque blonde, with seemingly no neck. Her head sits on her shoulders, but there's nothing in-between. Which means as she walks down the aisle, I'm fascinated and can't look away. This results in many smiles, and multiple can-I-help-you's but chivalry prevents me from asking "where's your fucking neck?" Meanwhile the frat boys down miniature JD's three at a time by four, each time telling Helga to keep the change.
I'm met at the airport by the Axe team, and driven back to the house where we'll be kept. I say "house" but it's more of a compound, with an ornate pool, complete with a replica of the Manneken Pis, eternally urinating into the water. The image is hedonistic, bacchanalian, and will possibly come to be seen as an apt metaphor for the weekend.
Over lunch, it turns out that the other writers, bloggers, podcasters sharing this junket with me are on assignment, working for sites almost all larger than YBNBY. I'm the runt of the litter, the little pig that squeaked. But we're drinking Mint Juleps, and being promised an evening of food, wine and song, so I can do nothing except stop comparing size and enjoy the ride. First a tequila tasting, then off for dinner in Louisville. Stay tuned to my tweets, for they will no doubt get less coherent as the evening progresses.
Tomorrow is The Derby, the most exciting two minutes in sport. Seen though the eyes of the runt. More to come.
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Hiya runt..missing you here..hope you have a fun time. Did you ever get a hat?
Sounds like loads of fun...FYI, here, our little pig squealed...one key difference from your little pig squeaked.
*sorry, could not resist.