Yesterday, I ran the gauntlet that is present-day air travel.
The fates smiled upon me because US Customs & Immigration let me pass thru unscathed--until the ninny at Station No. 4 called me Dewanna. (That's a new one to add to my extensive list of mispronounciations).
My flight to Cincinnati was uneventful, save for the nice man seated next to me who smelled like his colostomy bag needed attention--(although I'm not sure he had a colostomy bag). Granted, I wasn't exactly "fresh as a daisy" my own damn self, but this guy had his true Manly-Man-Musk working overtime. Plus, I think he smokes cigars when he's outside the clutches of the dreaded tobacco police. Aside from me having to breathe down my shirt for an hour and a half, the first leg was almost pleasureable.
Cincinnati has an interesting system of gates in Terminal C. Interesting enough to confuse the hell out of a semi-weary traveller whos olfactory system has been assaulted continuously for the last 90 minutes. Despite the ever-thickening haze occluding my brain cells, I managed to make it onto the correct plane. And the guy sitting next to me this time didn't stink, which was a relief in a serious way. Turned out he was from Arkansas, which means he was what us disgruntled travellers call a talker. It turned out alright, all considered, as he too hated Omaha with a passion. What's more, he was going there to appease relatives he didn't really want to be around. As if we didn't have enough in common, the topic of conversation inevitably turned to drugs, i.e. which ones to take to endure the high-drama which is de rigeur around blood relatives.
I'll close by giving him a shout out (only I didn't get his name). But I just want to thank him for offering me some of his Vicodin. It restored my faith in humanity. And needless to say, it warms my heart to meet someone who actually gives a damn.
It's just so beautiful.