THE NARRATIVE ARC

Paying for a Peaceful Nap at the Airport

Sometimes the price of quiet is worth it

I'm in the dark with Abby (the Scottie) curled up at my feet. There are voices in the distance, but they're white noise.

Was I asleep, or did my mind just wander? Where am I?

My eyes got used to a dark room I'd never been in. Then I remembered. I was in the Atlanta airport in a Minute Suite. I'd decided to spring for the rather hefty hourly charge and escape from the chaos.

I set my alarm so I didn't have to worry. I just paid for an hour. I wondered what would happen if I overstayed. I assumed they would just charge me, but at $70/hour, I wanted to be careful that didn't happen.

The mini-hotel is in the middle (or perhaps the end) of the Atlanta airport in Terminal F, the international terminal. I was waiting for my 10:30 pm flight back to Paris.

Thanks to an 11th-hour plane cancellation, I now had a 6-hour layover. What on earth was I going to do to keep my crated dog entertained for six hours until it was time for our connection?

Our first stop was the dog relief station. The sticky floor suggested that not all of its patrons made it to the designated "grassy" area (with the fire hydrant for males who lift their legs on vertical objects).

I had hoped to spend some time there so Abby could escape from her cabin carrier for a while, but I changed my mind. I was anxious to leave. I briefly thought about taking refuge in the nursing mothers' station.

A chance conversation at the dog station led to a solution I didn't know existed.

You never know where you're going to meet new friends. A man with a small white dog of indeterminate origin (in a carrier that actually fits under airline seats) chatted with me while our dogs sniffed each other.

I determined that he was from the Atlanta area and asked if there was somewhere nearby the airport that I could go eat and kill some time.

"You should get a mini-suite and take a nap," he suggested.

I'd only been traveling for six hours, but I'm sure I already looked tired. I've been doing transatlantic travel for 24 years, but between the last-minute schedule change and making sure the airlines knew I was traveling with a dog, it's never relaxing.

I don't sleep on planes, even long ones, nor the night before.

The mini-suites my newly-acquired friend mentioned are near gate F-5. When I arrived at the counter, no one was there.

"Hello? Hello?" I said.

"Shh!" came the response. "People are sleeping!"

Ravin (as she later introduced herself) had been cleaning recently vacated rooms.

"Sorry!"

I wasn't sure what to expect. I refrained from mentioning I'd never done this before. "How does this work?"

She inquired whether I was active duty or retired military, or whether I belonged to one of their credit card reward companies. Both entitle you to discounts. Absent that, the rate for 1–2 hours is $70/hour.

I thanked her and moved on. It was a little pricey for my travel budget.

As I made my way through the crowd and duty-free shops, I reconsidered. Yeah, it was expensive, but what if Abby and I had an hour of quiet and she could escape from her cage before we got on our next 9-hour leg?

How much was that worth?

So, that's how we ended up in the dark, stretched out on a Naugahyde couch in a 67-degree room with a comfortable pillow and a throw blanket - out of the madding crowd.

It was only an hour, but afterward we both felt refreshed and ready to continue the journey. I scanned the QR code and filled out the customer satisfaction survey.

"Do you mind if I take your picture?" I asked Ravin. "I'd like to write about this. I'm not sure people know this is available in airports."

"Sure. As long as you give me all fives!" she joked.

I had.

It was clean, quiet, and she's one of those people who makes you feel welcome in her corner of the world, and that she'll look after you.

"Where can I get something decent to eat here in the airport?" I asked.

She responded by putting up her "Be Right Back" sign and walking me down the concourse.

"My favorite place to eat is the Boathouse," she said, pointing. "They're nice, and they have good food."

I found an end seat at the bar and ordered food and a Modelo. My Mexican beer had a lime, but the guy next to me had a beer with an orange slice on the rim.

"That's a Blue Moon," explained the woman who was tending bar.

She handed me a short glass of it - complete with an orange slice - to try.

I've never voluntarily connected through Atlanta before, but I think I've changed my mind.

There's something to be said for Southern hospitality.