1st PostPosted: September 26, 2011
Standing in line to check my luggage in, waiting for the TSA to calm down about my electric razor charger, and now sitting at my gate. The American Airlines terminal is threaded with strains of relaxed, breathy, Andalucian Spanish. The Andalucians sound like they have a velvet lining over the back of their tongue – their s sound comes out as a sh. They aren’t dressed in a distinctly “European” style, whatever that means to you. The ladies (early thirties) in front of me at the baggage counter wore heels that showed off the French tips on their toes, and close-fitting but not tight fashionable jeans. But then there is the couple across from me, new husband with a grey button-up, jeans, and Nike running shoes and new wife with tight black jeans, black sweater, and running shoes with lime green trim and laces.
At their side is a Hollister bag. One of the sexy ones in color that features abs framed by a shirt and pulled-down pants.
A note to the fellow traveler: LAX “Free Public Wifi,” at least in the American Airlines terminal, either doesn’t work or really doesn’t like Windows-powered Lenovo’s (my beast of computing burden).
I struggle to catch the threads of their conversation, despite learning Spanish for seven years. It’s tricky to separate their conversations from the hushed buzz of the airport while maintaining a not-creepy distance.
LAX –> Fort Worth, Dallas
As the wheels get pulled off the runway, I register am suddenly sure, inexplicably and without reason – as all good gut feelings must be – that I forgot something.
More Spaniards. The grandmotherly (khaki pants, beige sweater, beige glasses, and gray hair) lady reading “Nuevo Testamento… Salmos Proverbios.” Then again, she could just as well be from Mexico.
Fort Worth, Dallas
Popeye’s Chicken. “Free Public Wifi” still doesn’t work. Me, my computer, or both, must be missing something.