I open my email yesterday to find one titled “Tara, Return to Europe from $137 Each Way.”
It’s a Continental Airlines bulletin taunting me with rock-bottom tickets to Europe. Ah, back to Europe with its cafes, shops, museums and overall relaxed atmosphere…
But I know better. I’ve fallen for similar Continental blasts (ya know, within minutes of my turnip truck tumble) only to find the seats limited to any 2:36am flight falling on a full moon Wednesday, providing Orion’s belt is fastened securely across his lap.
I hate these blasts. They piss me off. Why? Because, I want them to be valid. I want amazingly cheap tickets to Milan that don’t involve off-season, early morning, overbooked, sardine-style travel.
I want to hop on a plane for tapas in Barcelona or frites in Amsterdam. I want to shop for a Spring trench in London or gladiator sandals in Rome.
What sucks is that Continental’s headquarters is minutes away from my house. Its beaming blue lights point toward the friendly skies as I sit grounded on my couch.
Screw you, neighbor!