3:30 p.m. — leave Orlando hotel.
1:15 a.m. — arrive in Atlanta airport hotel.
In between, a couple of hours of sitting in the Orlando airport, three hours or so sitting on the airplane hoping Atlanta’s weather would stop sucking enough to let us go there, a brief departure from the plane to grab food, a mad dash out to the runway, some more sitting, a quick flight, a bout of circling Macon, a landing, a leisurely and frequently-interrupted taxi to the gate, an unpleasant stay in line with lots of pissed-off passengers with strange ideas of what airlines “should” do when these problems arise (“they have the planes, just sitting around; they should put them in the air!”), a freezing wait for the hotel shuttle, a shuttle ride, a protracted stay in line while the one hideously overworked concierge tries to clear out this shuttle load before the next one arrives, and then an elevator trip and a long hallway to my room.
In a moment, I will investigate the hotel and see if there is any food to be had, and maybe even a hot tub. I’m dubious on both counts, but apparently today has not ground all the hope out of me yet.