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.

Laura in Atlanta

Brian’s tray-table takes a surprising plunge from its full upright position. Luckily he has finished his apple juice, so neither the Zara shirt nor my baby blue leather jacket are soiled. In order to be travel-savvy, we’ve read Ready.gov’s latest information before departing. We are in the exit row, so we might need to use this information:
If you are sprayed with an unknown substance, stand and think about a cool design for a new tattoo.

Brian is reading Men’s Health magazine, and I’m reading emails. He reads this because of the gorgeous men. Correction. I look at the gorgeous men while he “learns about health, fitness and fashion.” I started with 41 unread messages, am now up to 42. I’m not sure how, but email reading is not going as planned.

I thought I was prepared to help with emergency maneuvers if required, being seated in the emergency exit row. However, as the plane turns, sun shines into the window, I’m blinded, and flail about while trying to reach the window cover to protect my eyes. It’s like walking into a door that clearly says: “Pull”.

We have begun our initial descent and I’ve read only 1 day’s worth of email. Brian, on the other hand, is on page 40 of his hot man magazine.

The second flight has finished boarding, and a man in a split-pea green shirt starts making difficult requests to the flight attendant. Since Brian and I are over 6 hours late, we take control of the situation. I get the man in a head-lock and Brian helps topple him into the seat row. With a clever use of the arm-rest and a dual seatbelt maneuver, the man is trapped and take-off is not further delayed. All the while, Brian and I still look stylish next to split-pea green.

Brian nearly has a hissy fit when he realizes I’ve mistakenly used his seatbelt, but manages to stay calm due to fear of his character having too many flaws in my novel.

The flight attendant explains the emergency procedures: “Do not initiate an emergency exit unless told to do so by myself or another crew member. We’ve had people see something funny outside and get out onto the wings unnecessarily.” Once again, stupid people are responsible for my safety.

You should not wear heavy metal accessories while travelling. Accessorizing was very traumatic to a small child had to take off his suspenders to get through the metal detector.
A grown son squishes his face between the seats to talk to his mother in the row in front. He is older and married, but evidently prefers his mother to his wife. In this excitement, she realizes she’s missing her large gaudy brooch. While she should have been elated, she gets the flight attendant to announce the loss, only to find the pin under her large, gaudy ass. Keep the accessories at home.

The man in front of us has just sneezed 14 times consecutively, which I expect will cause brain damage. Similarly, Brian is getting brain damage by reformatting Powerpoint slides.

Waiting for the flight home, Brian smells like airplane fumes, and while he’s working on slides I’m reading People en Español. To practice my pronunciation, I read out loud, which yields numerous Silverstone threats but nothing more. I have learned: grey hairs = canas and gotear = to drip. This from a hair dye ad.

A woman walks stocking-footed, carrying her boots in her hand. Brian swears at his charts, though maybe he’s upset by her feet. Obviously, the woman is not from New York or Paris. Brian thinks I should dye my hair 6RB form L’Oréal. Clearly, his opinions are inhibiting my people watching.

Our flight is delayed until 8:20, yet due to confusion with military time, the board says 21:26. While the delay may indeed be infinite, the cookies Brian bought alleviate my pain. I am trying to drink water form a squirt spout, which is like walking through rain without an umbrella.

There is a woman with a three piece baby pink travel suit. Due to lost luggage, I was forced to buy a fuchsia sweater at Wal-mart. Editor’s note: the word fuchsia is Brian’s. Brian suggests I’m jealous of the three piece travel suit. I’m not in tune with my emotions enough to know.
There is a plane waiting, but it may be still sitting there from the previous departure at gate E29, 45 minutes ago. I’d like a hairbrush. Or to win a trip to Fiji. The captain has arrived to the gate. It seems that, coupled with the waiting plane, we have the right ingredients for travel, yet my butt remains grounded.

Update: cough is worse, water continues to spill, and Brian takes abuse as a result. Correction, I hit Brian due to excitement of captain’s boarding awaiting aircraft. Concerned it’s the Toronto flight. Brian kicks his feet while he coughs.

Our Canadian military wears green camouflage in the desert. A man waiting at gate E29 wears beige camouflage. Was there just a major distribution problem? Departure time on the screen is now in the past. Hopefully Delta has the technology to board & depart 5 minutes ago.

Continued attempts at the squirt spout, this time water all over my face. Brian narrowly avoids a cookie-related hissy fit.
Update: the pink suit is complemented by a bag with fruit pictures all over it, a pink scarf, white shoes & socks and a straw hat.

I momentarily took over Brian’s computer today, and on his behalf responded to an email from Rob Casey. I suggested on Brian’s behalf that they best meet at 2:30 am, moving their relationship from professional to personal. When Brian got back to his computer, an instant message said: “I don’t think you’d want to see me in my jammies, not pretty”. Yet strangely, Brian does not find this unusual. I’ve begun to wonder about the true nature of Brian and Rob’s relationship.

While discussing the past days’ events, Brian and I assess whether we smell like cigar smoke by smelling each other’s leather jacket sleeves. A man (who eludes my ridicule by looking normal) gives us a look as we’re sniffing, and we cower at the thought of his trip report.

Laura in New York

I try to buy a Cosmo magazine at the newsstand, because I'm clearly to stoopid right now to read about video on demand. The guy at the counter tells me he's closing and shoos me away. So I play solitaire. But since this too is intellectually challenging, I type about waiting for a plane.

A young guy (teenager), has a cane, and talks on the phone for hours. He's telling someone what he wants for Christmas. Dark jeans, but not black, etc.

A woman my age should not tuck her boots into her pants. She has great hair and is eating fruit salad from "au bon pain". I should eat fruit salad, but "au bon pain" is too far and my feet hurt. But my boots are tucked under my pants.

1:42 left on the laptop battery, apparently only 45 minutes until my flight leaves.

The newspaper has stories about the new American/Arab television network, and how the French and Germans are participating in efforts to eliminate Iraqi foreign debt.

Grace continues to call people and tell them she's in La Guardia. She's an engineer, doing her masters, and not used to traveling. She leaves her bags unattended to go talk to the airline agent for the 3rd time.

A plane takes off. Why is that sound so unusual here?

A man snorts as if he nose may fall off his head, soiling his suit with blood, given insufficient suction. Horrors! That might delay the flight further. Hmm, in fact, maybe a similar incident earlier has caused the current delay! I cannot see any noseless people.

A business man offer an anxious couple a place to sleep at his house.

A women with impossibly high heels and a fabulous scarf walks by quickly. Why don't her feet hurt like mine? She could pass for New-Yorkish or Parisian.

The guy on the phone explains how to work the switch. Good thing he was around, who knows what would have happened.

The plant behind me prevents me from leaning back, and invades my personal space. I wonder if it's real. It is. Since it provides me with oxygen, I should be grateful. Or, maybe I should just be annoyed at all the other people who are using up my oxygen. I wonder if I'm deprived.

Grace returns to her bags. She is too trusting. She's now making friends.

The out-of-the-loop Anglophone airport worker tries to understand the (obviously hilarious) Spanish conversation of the cleaning crew. So do I. Her laughter shows that she's more successful than I am.

I hear a plane, it comes closer. I'm tickled pink. I hope it's not obvious. Curses! It's not Air Canada.

New people arrive to depart and look confused about where there going. There's one gate, and it's a hall where you can only go straight - how can you be confused? I'm so tired I'm writing emails about waiting, but I'm not confused. Yet the confusion reigns. A possible explanation is that one of their names is Maureen. Maureens, I think, are more easily confused.

Oh! A flight arrives! Again there are pink tickles! More curses, it's the flight to Toronto. Toronto's sounding good about now.

Maureen and Cheryl (I hope I spelled her name right) sit down. Cheryl's purse and shoes match really nicely, yet she still looks confused. Unfortunately, though I appreciate the coordination, she may have used up too much of her brain on it. Maureen is clearly trying to divide 343498566 by 17 in her head. I could offer to do it for her on my laptop, but I might use up some of my remaining 1:28 battery hours. And Grace might try to be my friend! Oups, Maureen caught me looking at her and grinning. Such is life.

The snorting man sits motionless, hosting a staring contest with himself in the window. He's angry not to be married at his age. Upon losing the contest (he stopped staring), he gets up and walks around, shaking his legs. The boot woman leaves her things unattended to go talk to the desk - her and Grace should take a street-smart course.

The people arriving from Toronto are filled with glee, and they skip hand-in-hand down the hall, wearing matching kilts. Their pink cowboy boots make a clicking sound with the line-dancing moves. This is the first hallucination, sign of great fatigue and back pain, I whine. I should call home, but I don't want to lose my seat, and my reception sucks. If I start yelling on the phone, someone might start typing about me, how embarrassing. I call, and I can hear nothing.

Cheryl gossips with the man in the cheap suit. I'm going to try calling on the payphone now. Sleet? Snow? Fog? Let's speculate and look confused about it! But relief comes in the form of an announcement of further delays to the Montreal flight. It is imperative that everyone immediately call their distant cousins to communicate the update.

A woman wearing her travel pearls sucks an innocent bystander into animated discussions about sleet snow and fog. He can barely conceal his acute boredom and plays with his cell phone. Her wallet does not match her shoes, which is likely part of the reason for her stress. On second thought the man, who inches away from her, may be her husband. She is indignant.

A woman explains that it's worse for her to be stuck here because her kids are waiting for her. My kids are waiting for conception, but I have not the brainpower to explore the comparison.

Maureen continue to divide numbers, so perplexing.

The woman in the corner, the epitome of patience, makes her first cell phone call. I admire her.

Cheryl stares at me, as if, since I'm typing, I might now about the sleet snow or fog.

The woman with her travel pearls has a 3 karat diamond. I wonder if that reflects or increases the radiation from her cell phone.

Still at 1:28 left on the battery. Time does indeed stand still. A win in solitaire continues to elude me, alas. Parts of my back move without my volition.

The guy with the cane demonstrates exemplary phone stamina. He would be well suited to a long distance relationship.

Oh my! A flight arrives! It's Ottawa! Why does no one else share my joy! Clearly the connection is challenging, and requires the mind to be free from pondering the weather and long division. This is confirmed by an announcement, yet the ring-lady remains confused. Perhaps she's trying to help Maureen with her math. Again I grin and embarrass myself.

The Lightpath account woman's daughter wants a jellykelly handbag for Christmas, which costs $175 (see jellykelly.net). My handbag cost $35 and I thought I was being ripped off. I wonder why the pearl-woman doesn't have a jellykelly - she could be so much more hip!

My preboarding call. Won't these people be jealous when I board.