Another day, another airport.
My mood on the road can be extremely fickle.
I can be told by the ticketing agent that the flight I fought an hour of bumper-to-bumper traffic to catch is delayed by 2 hours for the stupidest of reasons, and I'll just simply plop down at a bench by the gate and flip open a book while bobbing my head to whatever iPod is shuffling at the moment. I won't bat an eye at yet another hour on top of it, and perhaps even whistle while I make way to the nearest newsstand to flip through magazines.
In other days, I'm in an utterly nasty mood and I snap back with unbridled bitterness at the agent, interrogating him with icy coldness and ultra-business tone to ask for the cause of the delay and what the airline is doing about it... and to top it off, add a little something extra: "last week, the flight's cancelled; this week, it's delayed... what gives?" And this is after I endured through 40 minutes in a long line that snakes through the terminal, watching the dozens of people before me going through the exact same routine. (I'm sure that the agents take the care to give each and every one of us a big mental "F-U" as we walk away impotent with the boarding pass in hand.)
Eva, a nice Filipino lady who works the counter at Solly's just inside Terminal 2, recognizes me the instant I walk up to place my order. She'd crack a small, knowing grin and let out a tiny nod when I blurt out, "a hotdog, please," and when she's handed a naked dog from the kitchen, she'd say, "Chicago style, right?" Her hands move busily through different condiment containers without my having to reply: tomatos, pickle, hot peppers, onions, relish and mustard. Sometimes we exchange a quick banter (our first one was about my strange-sounding request for tomatos in my hotdog -- I had to explain that it's a Chicago-thing), sometimes, lines are busy and she'd hurrily hand me back the packed dog, tightly wrapped in foil, but never forget to quip, "see you next week" with a quick, smiling glance before she moves on to topping the next dinner in line.
Even during the days when I could be the biggest asshole at the ticketing counter, it's the small things like the brief banter with the counter-lady at an airport diner that reins me back in into the real world. I'd mentally feel very apologetic to the agent (my apologies, the lady manning the left-most counter at the United Airlines ticketing counter!), wolf down the hotdog, sit back, flip open my book and plug in the iPod earbuds... ahhhh.
An hour and a half to go. I'm in no hurry.
Back to the Battle at Gettysburg! (I'm reading "The Killer Angels" by Michael Shaara right now... an excellent book.)
I can be told by the ticketing agent that the flight I fought an hour of bumper-to-bumper traffic to catch is delayed by 2 hours for the stupidest of reasons, and I'll just simply plop down at a bench by the gate and flip open a book while bobbing my head to whatever iPod is shuffling at the moment. I won't bat an eye at yet another hour on top of it, and perhaps even whistle while I make way to the nearest newsstand to flip through magazines.
In other days, I'm in an utterly nasty mood and I snap back with unbridled bitterness at the agent, interrogating him with icy coldness and ultra-business tone to ask for the cause of the delay and what the airline is doing about it... and to top it off, add a little something extra: "last week, the flight's cancelled; this week, it's delayed... what gives?" And this is after I endured through 40 minutes in a long line that snakes through the terminal, watching the dozens of people before me going through the exact same routine. (I'm sure that the agents take the care to give each and every one of us a big mental "F-U" as we walk away impotent with the boarding pass in hand.)
Eva, a nice Filipino lady who works the counter at Solly's just inside Terminal 2, recognizes me the instant I walk up to place my order. She'd crack a small, knowing grin and let out a tiny nod when I blurt out, "a hotdog, please," and when she's handed a naked dog from the kitchen, she'd say, "Chicago style, right?" Her hands move busily through different condiment containers without my having to reply: tomatos, pickle, hot peppers, onions, relish and mustard. Sometimes we exchange a quick banter (our first one was about my strange-sounding request for tomatos in my hotdog -- I had to explain that it's a Chicago-thing), sometimes, lines are busy and she'd hurrily hand me back the packed dog, tightly wrapped in foil, but never forget to quip, "see you next week" with a quick, smiling glance before she moves on to topping the next dinner in line.
Even during the days when I could be the biggest asshole at the ticketing counter, it's the small things like the brief banter with the counter-lady at an airport diner that reins me back in into the real world. I'd mentally feel very apologetic to the agent (my apologies, the lady manning the left-most counter at the United Airlines ticketing counter!), wolf down the hotdog, sit back, flip open my book and plug in the iPod earbuds... ahhhh.
An hour and a half to go. I'm in no hurry.
Back to the Battle at Gettysburg! (I'm reading "The Killer Angels" by Michael Shaara right now... an excellent book.)
posted by choongster at 4:50 PM
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