Home sweet home. Almost. I’d been on a week-long business trip escorting a group of travel writers around northern Michigan, and the return trip was exhausting. I flew from Traverse City, Michigan, to Detroit and on to Atlanta. Now, I had an hour’s drive more to my house.
Luggage in tow, I headed toward the long-term lot where I’d parked my car at the Atlanta airport. I was beat. All I wanted was to climb into my car, drive home and climb into bed.
I reached into my purse for my travel notepad—the one I always take along to jot down my airport parking space. It wasn’t there. Couldn’t be! I put down my luggage and tore through the purse. Mints, keys, wallet, glasses, travel receipts—but no notebook.
Then I remembered. In my rush to make my flight out of Atlanta a week before, I’d forgotten to pack the notebook. I’d written the parking space number on a loose piece of paper. I rummaged through my purse again. The paper was gone.
I stood at the edge of the long-term lot and stared out across what looked to be a thousand cars. Night was falling. It looked like it might start to rain. Finding my car in a lot this large is going to take hours, I thought. I was on the verge of tears.
Just then a man driving a courtesy shuttle cart approached. “Need a ride?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, and climbed in.
“Where to?” he asked.
“I gotta tell you, I don’t have a clue where I parked,” I said, and explained my problem.
“You got one of those alarm buttons on your key?” he asked.
“Yes!”
“Then no worries. We’ll find it.”
We were about to drive off when a couple approached and asked for a lift to their car.
“Do you mind if I drop them off at their car first?” the courtesy driver asked me.
“No problem,” I said. What was a few more minutes, when we’d probably be driving around for half an hour or more?
The couple knew exactly where they were parked, and we made a bee-line to their car. When we got there, I looked up in amazement. I pulled out my key and hit the unlock button.
My car was parked right beside theirs.
