I should have realized this trip would not go as planned: I could not find my favorite pen and had to leave home without it. I’d rather have left my Am-Ex.
We have had some warm weather the past few days. Yesterday we hit 104f, with today being a bit warmer. This means a hot plane on the tarmac. Unfortuantely, non-functioning air-conditioning on the plane meant a hot plane in the air. We were quite a pungent lot by the time we de-planed. How come there’s a six hour delay when the pilot can’t figure out how to adjust his seat, but it’s all systems go in a flying steel coffin at 600 degrees?
So here I sit in Seattle, a pint glass of water and a 22 ounce glass of Mac and Jack’s African Amber in front of me. The only food stop I can find (beyond the roach-like Starbuck’s and an ice cream shop) is a safari-themed bar and grill called Africa Lounge. Their menu lists a pulled pork sandwich, delicious sounding salads (the descriptions, not the salads themselves — I couldn’t actually hear the salads. Perhaps because, well, they aren’t there. Or perhaps because salads generally do not talk much), a wide selection of burgers and the basic bar appetizers. At this time of night it’s appetizers only: chicken strips (do they wear gold tassels on their nipples?) with fries or hot wings. I try my most charming smile and some disposable witticisms, but wings and strips are all that is left. Sigh . . .
Wings are here: Lightly breaded, fried and slathered with a Tabasco-like sauce. Now I know why I ordered the beer. I’ve had these wings before. Every time I have ordered wings in an airport restaurant or bar, right down to the black and white checkerboard grease wrapper. The meager plastic container of ranch dip, tasting more like a chemical by-product than a food item, is de rigueur. I shall carry the memory of this meal with me throughout this trip. And if my wife can’t get the stain out of my shorts and shirt from where I dripped the hot sauce, for a long time afterwards as well. The celery was good. Nice and crisp. Gereen. A very pleasant green greeniness. Damn, I need a salad!
For those of you so desperate for entertainment, anything to fill the aching void of your sad, pathetic lives, that you are still reading this, I am now one-third of the way through my water and halfway through my Mac and Jack’s (who said nothing good ever came out of Redmond, Washington?). My flight boards in about half an hour and I fervently hope this meal doesn’t make the rest of my journey miserable. Beer and airport wings . . . what the hell was I thinking? Ah well, nothing to do now but pound the beer and hope the ice cream place is still open. Please, my little ice cream store, please be open!
The Manchu Wok is shuttered. The Bagel and Bakery is cl . . . open! Double damn! I could have had a bagel and stuff instead of death wings and chemo-sauce. I really need to give up later rather than sooner. Must be my liberal cut and run nature. And of course, The Grove, my happy little ice cream store, is closed. We’ll make that a triple damn with crud on top. Not a happy day.
I like SeaTac, actually. The artwork is interesting, odd sculptures palced in random spots. No labels, so it is a mystery as to who did it or what the artistic significance of any of it is. The random pasta shell sculptures are quite organic. The springs and bands and guitars not so much. I am not looking deeper tonight than “hmmm . . . interesting.” Nor am I describing it further. If you want to experience it yourself, fly here. What else? Oh yeah, the bathrooms are fairly clean. Yay.
Tomorrow I meet with a nameless customer and practice listening while making non-committal answering grunts. Tonight, though, I need to sleep. Please start boarding soon.
(p.s. — I apologize for any typos. I’m going on 40+ hours with no sleep, and was watching South Park while typing this in, so I’m not exactly all that aware of things at the moment)
Not logged in