You thought I was going to forget the seat belt and parking lot pictures, didn’t you? Oh ye of little faith!

I guess I’m good with seat belts. I never seem to need help.
(Yes, I know these seat belt signs are stupid, but I think they’re funny anyway. Maybe I’m just overly proud of myself for knowing how to work the buckle, who knows?)

The view from my room here in beautiful Fort Smith, AR. I’m pretty sure they roped off the parking lot as a crowd control measure for when my groupies get here.

Things are improving here, but so far life in Fort Smith is only half worth living. My luggage finally showed up. That should have been enough to make me fall in love with Fort Smith again for the very first time, but no, not quite.

When I reported the luggage missing, the counter-drone offered me a phone number to call “In case you decide you want your luggage to be delivered to your ho–” And I interrupted her with “I just decided: I want it delivered.” (No, no, I’d love to make an extra trip to the airport, don’t go to any trouble to bring me my fucking bag that you lost. Morons.)

She gave me a tracking number for my suitcase and an 800 number to call to track their progress and told me they’d call if/when the bag turned up and they’d deliver it to my hotel. You know, since I’d decided that’s what I wanted. An hour after the next flight from Dallas had arrived, I called to track my bag’s progress and sure enough, it hadn’t been found yet — but they (via the recorded message) sure were sorry. Another hour later it still hadn’t been found and they were still awfully sorry. So I did the only sensible thing: I went back to the airport.

I went back because I had a vision of my bag sitting on a carousel, unnoticed and unattended while I waited for something to actually do their job by a) finding it, b) calling me, and c) delivering it. And when I got to the airport, sure enough, there are unattended bags sitting on a dead carousel — except they weren’t mine. So I went to the counter and discovered that they had just packed up and closed for the night. I asked a cop there to track someone down to help me, and he finally turned up some 18 year old kid from the ground crew. The kid went behind the counter and, hey, what do you know? They had my bag! No call, and no delivery, but they had the bag.

I was so happy to have my underwear back that I stopped at Waffle House for dinner, and it was waffle-icious. That’s the worth-living half.

The icing on the cake? That 800 number still lists my bag as missing. I sure hope they find it soon.

Fort Smith is not off to a good start. The airline lost my luggage, the hotel’s high-speed internet doesn’t work, and my dial-up connection is currently smoking at 665 B/sec. That’s B, not KB. Thus far, I am not impressed with Arkansas in general and Fort Smith in particular.

There is a bright side, though: Waffle House, the finest restaurant in all the land. There’s one right next door to the hotel.

I think I know where I’m having dinner for the next 10 days. I just hope I don’t have to be wearing the same clothes at each meal — but I’ll fit right in if I am.