Monday, August 8, 2005

Laura in San Francisco

I have changed my pants twice since arriving at the San Francisco airport. The story goes like this. First, I bought a good cappuccino across from my hotel. Then, in my excitement, I spilt much of it on my pants while driving. Upon arriving at the airport, I changed to a brown pair of pants (would disguise future spillage). But then in the air-train, I was uncomfortable due to a lack of matching. So I changed again. This is obsessive compulsive behaviour, but note that I’m not prone to excessive hand-washing or door-locking.

I cannot find anything to buy with any nutritional value. So, if I get hungry on the plane, I’ll eat my magazine. It’s Spanish, like tapas. (I buy Spanish magazines because they take much longer to read). The lady in front of me buys a San Francisco spoon holder. (To clarify – a thing to rest your wooden spoon on while cooking on the stove. It is more comfortable for the spoon, I guess.) Anyway, the purchase of a SF spoon holder signals a new low for capitalism.

Update. A food stall opens, selling exclusively carbs, across from the book stand selling exclusively anti-carb diet books. The lady next to me in line speaks to a croissant. Do croissants understand English?

I have accomplished one of the highest airport feats of strength, which is to locate and seize the elusive plug in the waiting area. Strangely, no one congratulates me. Similarly, my Air Canada Prestige status goes unnoticed.

I begin to doubt my pants decision once again, because I think I would have fit in more with the clashing outfit. Many people comment on the smell of hotdogs while passing the carb stand. This is one of those inner thoughts to not share out loud, because everyone else can smell the hotdogs too. Except my friend who can’t smell post-nose job.

I have left my fake Chanel sunglasses in my hotel room. Despite the successful shopping of my trip, this fills me with sadness. How will I replace these?

The woman across from me wears a purple shirt with silver glitter. As if, at any moment, Prince Charming is going to arrive and she’ll be ready for the ball. Dancing may be a different story, however, since her feet are swollen to the size of pigeons. I will try to steal Prince Charming away from her, ha ha.

The second set of Amish/Mennonite people I’ve seen walks by. I didn’t know that San Fran was a hot spot for them.

The spoon-holder woman eats carbs with orange juice. There are crumbs on her table, indicating that should buy a San Francisco crumb catcher. Those probably sit next to the thimbles.

A man in the corner (who, I admit, has also accomplished the laptop power feat), has a huge head. This is accentuated by his tiny cell-phone. Poor choice. He argues loudly with his wife as to why the power has been turned off and why alarms ring throughout their house. I think she should have called someone else.

A girl plays pick-up sticks on the floor. I expect jacks is next. Or maybe hopscotch.

Surprising how many people have not mastered the suitcase with pull wheels. You cannot push it, that will not work.

A security advisory announcement suggests that one should keep possession of ones bags, and take the elevator with one’s luggage cart. I have several more suggestions for the advisory. See above.

A poster announces new flights to Barcelona. I hope I end up on one.

During the fight to SF, the man next to me kept leaning into my personal space to look out the window. While feigning sleep, I use a spasmodic elbow movement to knock him upside the chin, causing him to bite his tongue off. That should teachim.

The flight crew lines up at the carb stand. This is a bad sign for food on my 5 ½ hour flight.

Update: Spoon holder store and carb stand compete for popularity. Various forms of chili-dog infiltrate the waiting area. Pick-up sticks girl is now bare-foot and playing cards. No adults under 200lbs are in sight. Several men have breasts larger than mine, yet I’m not jealous. I pine over my fake Chanels.

A man’s chili dog leaks onto his pants. I feel his pain. He has no alternative outfit.

I recognize the flight attendants from a previous flight. It’s like Groundhog Day. I have now succumbed to chili-dog hunger.

In the Ottawa Airport at 5:00am I saw 2 people I know. I would prefer to see some now. But they are unlikely to show up.

Just realized that the man with the huge head might be ideally-suited for the woman with the huge feet. Should I introduce them? I’ll let fate take its course. Wonder if she would like his mutton chops.

I have become delirious about chili dogs, which is a first. Also have now been relegated to sitting on the floor. Mutton chops looks on, bemused. Correction, I imagine the bemusement. Fantastic examples of bed-head are demonstrated by arriving passengers, many of which head directly to the chili-carbs, as if that’s what they’ve come for.

A child walks by alone, with no apparent parents. At least she has shoes.

A man wears green flannel pants. Probably had to change into his PJ’s after a chili dog accident.

Between them, a couple has 8 carry-on items. A strange outlet for their rebellion against societal norms.

I have not yet seen any famous people, despite my search. I have made a mess on the floor with my scone crumbs, but my pants are thankfully unscathed.

A woman with good hair and sunglasses files her nails. Since my jealousy is multifaceted, I make a mental note to put an emery board in my laptop bag. Other than laptop stuff, it currently contains makeup, mirror, hand cream, cell phone ear piece, comb, band-aids, case of pills, 3 pkgs of crackers, Kleenex, work badge, car keys, business cards, another mirror (oups, vanity problem), another case of pills (drug problem), mints, purse, tickets and passport.

Speaking of societal norms, the amount of sugar in the North American diet is shockingly high, once Jeff M. (Cox account prime) gets you to think about it. My day starts with a cappuccino with sugar and a sweet buttery scone. Carb sandwich with sweet iced tea for lunch. Seeking the healthiest item in Philly’s food court, I go for the smoothie from Chuck’s Salad and Turkey stand. It is mostly orange sherbet. The lettuce has all been victim to some terrible accident and nasty ranch dressing, so I’m forced into a sweet piece of cheese pizza. Diabetes is forthcoming. While contemplating the sugar content of our diets, I also wonder how often Paris Hilton gets her roots touched up.

In Philadelphia, I’m shocked and saddened to discover that my Spanish magazine has a whole article on sunglasses, including Chanel. Correction: photo essay: Gafas con personalidad. Shock and sadness are likely not appropriate for waiting area, so I revert to acute boredom.

There are only 9 people waiting at my departure gate, a bad sign for the flight’s ultimate punctuality.

I am sitting next to the Automatic External Defibrillator. This is a good sign. My heart attacks should be prevented before they begin. Slightly concerning is the fact that a man seems to be throwing garbage into the room for the Defibrillator. So maybe it’s wireless.

A man is freaking out and yelling at everyone in the Ottawa waiting area due to his vacation having been screwed up. He seems to have been unable to identify his boarding pass. I hope he does not sit next to me, I will have to feign sleep.

An announcement asks that if anyone finds an employee ID to please return it. To me, this sounds like a major security breach, but I’m more concerned about the yelling man.

The staff loiters around the defibrillator. They must know it’s good for them. Meanwhile, an acute pain in my head indicates that I have a blood clot, which is a drag.