the cheryl comedy hour
When I started traveling more for work (and B started traveling way more), I realized why comedians always have lots to say about airplane food—they spend 80% of their lives in transit. This point was driven home last night when I was waiting for my delayed flight at the Oakland airport, and I was on the phone with B, making plans to take her to the airport the next morning.
“I can’t believe I’m at the airport, talking about a trip to the airport. Which will take place in less than 12 hours,” I complained. “It just seems wrong.”
“So do you want to talk about when you’re going to fly out and meet me in New York over Thanksgiving instead?”
“You’re not helping.”
I’ve also noticed myself making schticky mental observations about airport life. For example, last week when I went to pick up B, I headed to LAX early so that I could exchange some leftover Hong Kong dollars at the international terminal. The only time I’d spent in the international terminal previously (like any normal person) was when I was coming or going, or picking someone up. But sans the stress of catching a flight or locating a weary traveler, I realized…the Tom Bradley International Terminal is happening.
It’s one big party. There are people with balloons and flowers. Music is playing. Coffee is flowing freely and there are stacks of Us Weekly ripe for reading-without-purchasing. I had an overwhelming sense of, “This is where the cool kids hang out.” Not at the dreary Alaska terminal (B’s airline of semi-choice lately), tiled insane-asylum-yellow and void of even a single chair.
If the international terminal is, um, whatever a really hot nightclub is, then Terminal 6 is, like, a club I’d actually go to. Kind of mellow. A little under-populated. But home to Java Java, where you can buy something called a Mocha Almond Roca. I got myself a decaf latte and strolled on down to Terminal 7, where a handsome young man with an envious expression approached me and asked, “Where did you get that?”
“Terminal 6,” I said. Yeeeahh. I know where it’s at.
I’ll be here all week, folks. Until I have to fly out again.
“I can’t believe I’m at the airport, talking about a trip to the airport. Which will take place in less than 12 hours,” I complained. “It just seems wrong.”
“So do you want to talk about when you’re going to fly out and meet me in New York over Thanksgiving instead?”
“You’re not helping.”
I’ve also noticed myself making schticky mental observations about airport life. For example, last week when I went to pick up B, I headed to LAX early so that I could exchange some leftover Hong Kong dollars at the international terminal. The only time I’d spent in the international terminal previously (like any normal person) was when I was coming or going, or picking someone up. But sans the stress of catching a flight or locating a weary traveler, I realized…the Tom Bradley International Terminal is happening.
It’s one big party. There are people with balloons and flowers. Music is playing. Coffee is flowing freely and there are stacks of Us Weekly ripe for reading-without-purchasing. I had an overwhelming sense of, “This is where the cool kids hang out.” Not at the dreary Alaska terminal (B’s airline of semi-choice lately), tiled insane-asylum-yellow and void of even a single chair.
If the international terminal is, um, whatever a really hot nightclub is, then Terminal 6 is, like, a club I’d actually go to. Kind of mellow. A little under-populated. But home to Java Java, where you can buy something called a Mocha Almond Roca. I got myself a decaf latte and strolled on down to Terminal 7, where a handsome young man with an envious expression approached me and asked, “Where did you get that?”
“Terminal 6,” I said. Yeeeahh. I know where it’s at.
I’ll be here all week, folks. Until I have to fly out again.
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