The End of an "Era": Our Last-Minute Trek to See Taylor

The first time I, then a 33-year-old man, publicly declared my love for the music of the then 20-year-Taylor Swift was via a Facebook status update on January 21, 2010 that read: "(The) radio station inside my head only plays Taylor Swift. If I die, I very well may be reincarnated as a 12-year-old girl." 

There I was, on the record as being enchanted, over a decade ago. Thus, when the announcement about the massive "Eras" tour came out, I just naturally assumed I'd be one of the lucky ones to score tickets. I was the man. I dutifully signed in at the right time and requested to be a verified ticket buyer. But as I'm sure many of you experienced, the process was more treacherous than I had anticipated. No code was forthcoming. I didn't even have the opportunity to get screwed by Ticketmaster on the day tickets dropped. 

With the universe basically telling me "you're on your own, kid," I had to mastermind a new plan to avoid a cruel Taylor-less summer. Before I go further, let me acknowledge I live an incredibly privileged existence. There are surely legions of deserving Swifties who couldn't even afford the tickets at face value. No one should feel sorry for me. These are absolutely champagne problems. That said, we're all the heroes of the story of us, so I figured I'd use my privilege to be able to afford tickets for more than face value. I scoured the secondary ticket markets for months, going all the way back to December. To my dismay, my level of privilege wasn't near to being enough to snag even the cheapest of tickets (which were going for around $1,300 to sit BEHIND THE STAGE). Refreshing those sites daily was like death by a thousand cuts. 

This clearly would require a fearless level of dedication. I had a slight advantage: My sister lives about three miles from Levi's. I figured the fam would head over to her place on one of the nights and just wait out the resale market. We could show up in the parking lot, even missing the opening acts, but someone would get desperate enough to unload three tickets for something not ridiculous. If it didn't happen, we could just come back and be here at my sister's for a family sleepover.

Then I heard from a friend on the East Coast (she used to live here but her family moved far away, so now we may never, ever, ever all get back together again) who tried exactly that. She texted me "I legit felt like I was 'meant' to go and tickets would fall on me, somehow. Didn't happen." Like me, she felt destined to get tix. It didn't happen. I was no longer innocent nor in a state of grace. 

I gave up. I resigned myself to non-attendance. I pouted and refused to read any reviews of the shows or even check out the set list. I posted a half-sincere status letting everyone know that barring a miracle I wouldn't be attending and that I was resentful of those who were. One of my friends offered to listen to my six-hour Taylor mix and wallow in our sorrows. I took him up on it. I was sitting in his hot tub in Martinez (about 15 minutes from my house) on perhaps my fourth beer of the day, watching the Giants game when my phone buzzed. My wildest dreams had come true. The miracle had arrived. What follows is a running diary of what happened next, along with my thoughts about the show (all times approximate):

Saturday, July 29, 4:23 pm:

My friend Gus, who had commented on my earlier post that he was going to the show Saturday (I told him to slip on a banana peel) messages me that he might have a couple tickets at near to face value. One of his daughters got sick that afternoon, and he needed to stay home with her. I actually initially balk. I just can't envision a transition that would get me from hot tub to Santa Clara in time for the show. And he only has two tickets. I know my wife and daughter would want to come. I tell him to put the tix on Stub Hub and make a few thousand dollars (tix in this 300 section were going for over $2,000). 

But then I start thinking...am I crazy to turn this down? Eileen has to fly out to New York for work early in the morning, so there's no realistic way she is going to be able to go. That leaves Rory, whom I took to Olivia Rodrigo last year in what was one of the best nights of either of our lives. She's a huge Swiftie; she plinks out Taylor tunes on the piano from a book we got her. If I could do this with her, for roughly what we paid to see Olivia, then it's worth working out a hasty plan to get to Levi's (over an hour away; the show starts at 6:30). I call Gus and ask what he wants for the tix (it's too late to put them on Stub Hub, so his wife is going to see what she can get for them in the parking lot). He offers them to me for $500 each; I accept. I call Eileen and tell her to inform Rory we're going. I hear her screaming in the background when she gets the news. She needs to calm down.

4:44 pm:

I simultaneously towel off and order an Uber to take me to my home, as I don't have my car. I also call my sister, as I figure the show will end late, and with no idea how we'll get home, we'll need a place close by to stay, stay, stay. 

My Uber driver Anatoly picks me up. He is Ukranian and has the thick accent to match. I ask him if he'd be willing wait outside my house while I change and then take us to Levi's. He says yes, if we "Leave Uber out of it." I like this guy's style. I look up the cost of the trip from my house to the show. It says $65. I offer to give him $60. He's down. Problem one solved.

5:02 pm:

I arrive at my house. Rory is wearing a dress and beaming and hopping up and down. I have no idea what to wear. I put on some thin, stretchy sweat pants, thinking jeans might be too hot but shorts too cold. I put on a Warriors-related t-shirt, slap a Niners hat on my chlorinated hair, and tie a light jacket around my waist. I figure I will be the worst-dressed person at this concert. I am not wrong. 

5:08-6:28 pm:

I learn many things about Anatoly, who now, freed from the harness of Uber decorum, talks nonstop. He left the Soviet Union in 1996 after being in the military. I will myself not to make Red Dawn and Hunt for Red October references. He misses the Soviet Union and wishes it never broke up. He thinks we need Trump back as president because he could stop the war. His opinions often contradict each other. He ends most statements with "But thaaat is may opeeeenyon onlay." Rory keeps looking at me with a confused "Is this guy insane?" expression. I try my best to give her a smile that says "Yes, he is, but I already paid him, and we need him, so I'm just gonna keep saying 'right' and 'that's interesting' until we get there." He tells me to call when the show is over, and if he's around he'll take us back home (he lives in Concord). I am not sure how desperate I'd have to be to do that, but I guess we'll find out. 

6:29 pm:

Anatoly drops us off in front of the stadium. As we head across the parking lot toward the venue, we can hear Gracie Abrams start to play. As I am only vaguely aware who Gracie Abrams is, I am not too disappointed to be missing her. I'm just relieved we made it on time and trying not to think about how we're gonna get out of here. There are big crowds of people outside the venue, either tailgating, trying to score last-minute tix, or both. There but for the grace of God go I, I think as we enter the venue. 

6:57 pm:

We arrive at our seats after passing perhaps the longest lines at a concert venue I've ever seen. The one for merch is so long that I can't see where it ends. The lines for food spill into the concourse. The only stands with no lines are those that exclusively sell beer. I take that as a sign and grab one. I tell Rory I hope she's not hungry anytime soon. She says she's too excited to be hungry, which is good because all the food I'll be able to access for a while is the fruit roll-up I smuggled in my pocket. When things get crowded, she grabs my hand and holds on, which is bliss.

Rory is going to hit middle school in a couple weeks. She's started calling me "Dad" instead of "Daddy" in front of her friends. She won't let me hug her or give her "cuds and ticks" as much and rarely allows me to carry her up to bed anymore.  But she still needs to hold her Daddy's hand when there's a big crowd and she might get lost, and I remind myself to treasure that while I can. 

7:00-7:30 pm:

Haim plays. They're fine. I spend most of the time trying to decide which one was in that Paul Thomas Anderson movie. They mostly seem a bit insignificant on this giant stage that runs basically the entire length of the football field. Taylor must have something pretty special planned. 

7:58 pm:

She does.

The countdown hits zero, the clock strikes midnight, and whatever this is starts happening:

The fan people move to the center of the stage, surrounding a platform that rises and falls all night, and the woman of the (midnight) hour emerges:

8:00-8:23 pm (Lover):

She starts with a shortened version of "Miss Americana," but honestly it's hard to care about the opening tune as we just try to acclimate to the spectacle and noise and energy. It's a decent enough song, but when she follows it up with "Cruel Summer," probably Lover's best bop, it feels like the party has truly begun.

She burns through six tunes from the album, none of which is "Cornelia Street" but hey, I'm not gonna get all my favorites, and ends with an extended outro to "The Archer," with moving arrows projected all over the massive stage, as Taylor disappears for a costume change. It would not be the last.  

8:27-8:38 pm (Fearless):

This short three-song segment features the stage lit up as a sparkly acoustic guitar...

and ends with the two best pop songs a 16-year-old ever wrote: "You Belong With Me" and "Love Story." I look over at Rory during the choruses to make sure she's loving this as much as I am at the "and you know it's with meeeeeee" part. She's doing alright:

8:45-9:12 pm (Evermore):

The high of pure pop bliss transitions into the quarantine couture of Evermore, a record not without its charms but certainly less fit for an arena setting. "Willow" inspires a stadium full of cell phone lights, set to some gorgeous stage visuals:

 

I choose the end of this set to make my first visit to the facilities because my bladder can no longer tolerate it. There are lines for the stalls, but the urinals are all clear. As I finish up I notice that the wait for the stalls is long because there are women waiting in them. There are women next to me as I wash my hands. I am suddenly terrified that I just used the wrong bathroom. I hustle out and look up at the sign over the door despite the fact that I just used a urinal. Kudos to all those ladies who put up with having to be around men as they shake it off (I'm so so sorry) to avoid the massive lines for the women's restroom. 

The food lines have died down, so I grab some chicken fingers and fries, a water for Rory, and (you guessed it) another beer for me. I make it back for the start of the next bunch of songs, which happen to be from my least favorite Taylor record...

9:15-9:26 pm (Reputation):

Here's the thing: "...Ready for It?" is not a very good song. However, it's a pretty darn good concert song, if that makes sense:

Ditto "Look What You Made Me Do," which...I mean...look at this:

Here's where I need to pause and stress that not only did Taylor change costumes and looks for every "era," every single song had its own effects (lighting, pyro, backup dancers, movable platforms, etc.). She was absolutely determined to make sure everyone got their money's worth, and I doubt anyone left feeling ripped off, regardless of what they paid (although for what some people paid, they could've purchased a small yacht). 

9:30-9:35 pm (Speak Now):

Just a shortened version of "Enchanted" (including the fantastic bridge: "PLEASE. DON'T. BE IN LOVE. WITH. SOME. ONE. ELLLLLSE") followed by "Long Live," which is a song I treasure so much that I closed a commencement address to the College Park class of 2020 with some of its lyrics. Check out Taylor's purple prom dress:

9:39-9:58 (Red):

This is it. This right here. Four absolute bangers from her best album. "22" with the iconic t-shirt/top hat combo, followed by the first Gyllenhaal slander song ("WANEEGBT"). Earlier in the night, she mentioned that Santa Clara had made her the honorary mayor for the weekend. During "I Knew You Were Trouble," the end-of-night fireworks from next-door Great America start going off behind the stage:

At the conclusion of the tune, sporting a sly smile, Taylor quips: "You know why they did that, right?" She pauses with commendable comedic timing and delivers the punchline, "Cuz I'm the mayor." 

Does she close with the ten-minute version of "All Too Well?" Friends, you know she does. It is everything I am hoping for. She has broken me like a promise, and I am elated. What a way to close a show. Money well spent, priceless memories made with Rory. Whew.

I look down at the set list from last night I have hastily googled. My jaw opens and hangs there. Taylor has already performed 24 songs.

Out of 45. 

10:01-10:20 pm (Folklore):

You may notice a lack of photos for the rest of this blog. That's because at this point I start worrying about how Rory and I are going to get to my sister's house (possibly to leave a scarf in a drawer). This section has the same snoozy quality as Evermore; although, the songs are beautiful, particularly "August," and it appears that they have somehow wheeled out an entire two-story cottage onto the stage for Taylor to croon from. Everyone has been standing for the two hours since the show started, but lots of people take these tunes as an opportunity to sit down for a few minutes, including not one but both of us. 

10:23-10:34 pm (1989):

Taylor quickly gets us all back on our feet with a blistering run of hits from her first pure pop album, blasting through "Style," "Blank Space," "Shake it Off," and then shortened versions of "Wildest Dreams" and "Bad Blood." I have no idea where she's getting the energy from. I am exhausted (which is my fault for starting to drink beer at 1:30- I'm the problem; it's me). At this point I open the Uber app, Google "where to pick up ride share from Levi's stadium" and begin to have a low-level anxiety attack as I mentally compete with the 68,000 other people here who all surely have arrived here with a better plan than I have.

10:38-10:45 pm ("Surprise Songs"):

We get "Stay Stay Stay," which of course I know and something called "All of the Girls You've Loved Before," which I do not and am too lazy to look up. I open up the Google map on my phone to determine how long it would take to WALK to my sister's: over an hour. Ugh. Not an option, unless things are really dire. 

10:48-11:15 pm (Midnights):

I show Rory the remaining set list and ask her which songs she doesn't want to miss. She points to "Anti-Hero," the second ditty in this final leg. Ok, then. It's going to take us at least five minutes to exit the stadium from our perch in the 300 section. We get up from our seats. I don't want to leave early, but I also don't want to be stuck at Levi's for the rest of the night. We make our way down to the concourse and watch the end of "Bejeweled." Two songs left ("Mastermind" and "Karma," which is one of my least favorite hit songs of hers). It's time to go. 

I head toward the sign directing me toward the ride share pickup, which is somewhere known as "Lot 7." I don't know where it is, but it's gotta be close, right?  I order the Uber. 

11:19 pm:

The Uber driver calls me. He's in Lot 7 and wants to know where we are. I tell him we're making our way across the stadium parking lot and following the signs. He sounds despondent: "You're still in the parking lot?" For the first time, I pull up where, exactly, Lot 7 is.

It's literally a mile from the stadium. 

I plead with the driver not to leave and tell Rory she needs to move her little legs. Behind us, fireworks pop and explode. Taylor's sending us off. 

11:25 pm:

He calls again to check our progress. I tell him we're really close, panting. 

I am lying. I tell myself it's for my daughter's well-being, so it's fine. 

11:29 pm: 

The driver calls to inform us that Lot 7 was getting unworkable, so he has pulled out and is waiting on the side of the road with his flashers on. As I pull Rory down the road, huffing and puffing, Lot 7 appears in view. It looks like a hornet's nest that's been stirred up. Farther down the road, I see a solitary Toyota Camry, hazard lights going. If there is such a thing as karma, this guy deserves to have nice things for driving the getaway car for us. 

11:32 pm:

We tumble into the back seat. We've made it. I couldn't be more proud of Rory, who hasn't complained once, though I know she's tired. She leans against my shoulder and says, "Thanks for taking me, Daddy. I had a great time." Does she get points off for not saying "I had the 'best day' with you"? Obviously. But still, that's pretty sweet. We've created a core memory together. 

11:46 pm: 

We arrive at my sister's building and climb the three stories to her condo. I find Rory one of my brother-in-law's t-shirts to sleep in and tuck her into the guest bed, which is adorned with a few of my sister's old stuffed animals. She asks me to leave the door open halfway, so the light can come in. Middle school, puberty, boys, drama, arguments over clothes and makeup...that's all coming. It's the end of an era. But not tonight. Tonight she's still my little girl. 

12:02 pm:

Today was a fairy tale. 

 

How Frequent Flyers Are Getting F@#%ed

 

Air travel sucks. 

We all know and accept this. From the second I settle into my seat, all I can think about is when I can get off this plane. I'm not afraid of flying or anything like that. I just hate it. Trapped in a confined metal tube, squishing my tall frame into a cramped space, trying to decide if ordering a drink is worth it because then I'll have to either rub my butt or my crotch against two sleeping people when I have to go to the lav...it all sucks. 

Oh, and it's somehow getting worse? That legroom keeps getting shorter, so the airlines can cram more sardines into the can. We have to pay extra to bring a suitcase with us now? And for the food? Wait, there's no real food on this flight sustain life on this tiny bag of pretzels. 

Ticket prices keep going up, even as the airlines are reporting record profits. Yet, we customers put up with it. Why? Because it's by far the safest, fastest, and most efficient way to travel long distances. Duh. We need the airlines as much as they need us. They know this and treat us accordingly. 

Despite all this there are actually people who love to fly. So much so, they make it their profession. They work a job that is somehow equal parts chaos and drudgery so that you can get where you need to go.

You probably don't think about flight attendants that much. If you do, you likely picture Britney up there, being "Toxic."

 Or maybe's it's Leo:

Pop culture makes being an FA look glamorous, but the reality is anything but. When people find out I'm a teacher, they have a basic understanding of what I do. People generally think the most important thing FAs do is pour coke. However, FAs are an integral part of air travel. They're highly trained and required by law. Without them, none of us fly.

And they are getting completely and totally ripped the fuck off. 

So you know how terrible it is when you show up at the airport, all charged up to go on vacation/visit family/head home, and you look up and see the second-biggest airport curse word: "DELAYED" (only "CANCELLED" rates higher)? Your day has been ruined. You showed up on time, checked your bags, waited in the security line...you did everything right. And now the airline hasn't held up its end the bargain, and you're stuck in an airport, which isn't quite a circle of hell, but it's in the suburb adjacent. You are so pissed/dejected, and you're at the mercy of the airline. 

Well, flight attendants experience all that too. Yeah, you may be saying, but that's their job. That's what they get paid for. 

Here's the thing, though: They don't. 

You know how when most other hourly employees show up at their job, dressed in their uniforms, they get paid from the time they start work? That's not true for FAs. The amount of time FAs work without pay is criminal. I mean that word literally. The amount of wage theft FAs endure should be against the law; I have no idea how it doesn't violate several labor standards. Apparently it has something to do with the Railway Labor Act of 1926. Seems fair.

FAs don't start earning their hourly wage when they arrive at the airport parking lot. They don't get it when the shuttle drops them off at the terminal. They don't get paid starting at their required "report time," typically an hour before scheduled takeoff. During this unpaid time, they are doing required safety checks of all medical supplies, door checks, and aircraft safety checks. They also do galley stocking/inspections, talk with the pilots about the required flight plan, gate agents about boarding times, ramp agents about bags). All of that sounds a helluva lot like "work" to me. 

The first time you probably notice the flight attendants is when you are boarding the plane. There they are, on the actual plane, making announcements, helping people find their seats, settling disputes between passengers. This is clearly an integral part of their job, right? Obviously they're being paid for this, yes?

No. Flight attendants are only paid for actual flight time. That's it. I'm telling you, it's criminal. 

Think of it this way: Your flight is delayed two hours. Maybe you go to a restaurant or a bar. Maybe you buy a book. Maybe you play on your phone. But you hang in there because you still want to get to your destination. But to a flight attendant, the destination is immaterial. They're there to do their job, and they only get paid when the plane is in the air. Two hours' delay is just two more hours at work without being compensated for their time. 

Oh, and you know how when your flight gets cancelled, you now have to get on hold with the airline and wait for them to figure out how to get you where you're going? FAs have to deal with that exact same thing with crew scheduling, where they can be on hold for hours at a time. Except the flight attendants weren't going anywhere special to them in the first place. The flying was the whole point. So now they're holding on the phone, trying to figure out where to head to next, and not being paid a cent for any of it. 

You know that excruciating time after the plane touches down and arrives at the gate, and you have to watch everyone in front of you gather their belongings in slow motion, and all you want to do is GET OFF THIS GODDAMN PLANE? The FAs are right there with you, only they have to smile and say goodbye and waive and pretend to be happy even while they are, say it with me now, NOT GETTING PAID FOR THIS SHIT. 

Then there's the "all they do is pour coke" thing. Flight attendants must travel to and undergo a six-and-a-half week training program where they learn actual life-and-death aviation procedures and stuff they have to promise not to reveal to avoid the threat of imprisonment, like what to do in case of a terrorist incident. They work 8-10 hour days, 6 days a week. They get a hotel room and $20 a day for food. Do they get paid for this training? If you've read this far, I think you know the answer to that. Oh, and then there quarterly trainings that last 4-6 hours. They get paid for one. Every 18 months there is a 10-hour training. They are paid for three, which somehow is more demeaning than none. 

Once they complete the training, the reward is to work for roughly $30 an hour.* But not before they are forced to PURCHASE THEIR OWN UNIFORMS, the cost of which is slowly bled from their paychecks over the next two years for an average of about $2,000. They sound high quality! Except that they frequently rip and break, particularly the zippers, and then the FAs have to buy replacements at hundreds of dollars a pop. Glamorous!

Wait, there's more! A Harvard study found that FAs are at higher risk for cancer, in particular breast, respiratory issues, and all-cause mortality. But if they call in sick too often due to these issues, they get fired. 

If you got this far, you might wonder why anyone would stay in this profession. Here's the thing: We NEED them to stay. Constant turnover isn't just bad for employees, it's bad for passengers, too. Recently, a glimmer of hope emerged:

This only happened because Delta's FAs threatened to unionize. The airlines WILL respond to pressure, so we need to support FAs and their unions. 

People need to realize what flight attendants go through. Five or six days a week, they deal with the travails of air travel, which most of us take on as seldom as possible. Their whole job is the thing I dread and avoid when possible.

Shouldn't they at least get paid for doing it? 

*Everything cited here is true for one of the major airlines (not Spirit, a real airline). FA pay varies, especially dependent on whether it's mainline (like Delta), or regional (Skywest), who make less and are highly exploited.