In reality, most airports disgust me. Their hard cold linoleum or concrete floors with infected children carrying millions of germs, wiping their snotty noses then touching the people mover rail that I will inevitably touch 10 minutes later.
It’s just a cess pool for bacteria.
Except PDX. It’s carpeted and clean. And I like to think of Oregonians as being clean individuals. [Although a trip to Hawthorne or Old Town would prove that the unwashed lurk here as well.]
I knew my trip would be interesting when I fell into line at the Alaska ticket counter behind a woman who exhibited some very questionable behavior. She scratched her nails underneath her neck, her arms, and her hat. She wore a mysterious wrap over her wrist area which I refuse to believe was for arthritis and was probably concealing track marks.
A confused clerk answered Jitter’s questions while a security guard looked on. Apparently he shared my similar intuition and I guess has the authority to approach individuals who look like they are undergoing crack withdrawals. As I walked by them, I heard Jitters tell the security guard that she was suffering from asthma and hadn’t taken her meds.
For the record, she was breathing fine. And correct me if I’m wrong, but itching is not a side effect if you forget your inhaler. I think it’s more along the lines of wheezing and your breathing subsiding.
With Jitters out of the way and with the great line luck I was having, a very large family (in members, not in weight) had just beat me to the security line. They seemed to be saying goodbye, but all members of the family entered the line. One of the daughters of the clan asked if I would take a picture. I do. We move another 20 feet and I’m preparing for the usual security rundown. My passport is in my mouth, quart size bag full of liquids in my right hand, my purse is slung over my shoulder as I dig into it with my free hand to find my ticket when a voice asks me, “will you take another picture?”
Really? This isn’t Disneyland and it would appear that I am busy.
I don't say anything, take the smart phone, and snap another picture. This time, I didn't bother to give them a countdown.
It isn’t until about 2 minutes later that I realize they are saying goodbye to their dad. They have gifted him a homemade fun-size candy bar necklace that he is now wearing in public to show that he really does love his kids. It was probably for Father’s Day. He is wearing sunglasses to hide his tears from his 4 children but the telltale mouth quiver gives him away.
I want to offer to take another picture.
I make it through security and am awaiting my bags on the other side of the X-Ray. I see my first container come into view that holds my laptop and as I go to reach for it, a man throws his tattered Van’s shoe on top of it.
Did you really just throw your shoe on my MacBookPro?
I turn to find the owner of the tired shoe standing beside me. He looks up at me, realizing that he has no laptop and there was no reason for him to throw his shoe into any container post-X-ray screening. He feigns any understanding for the English language and giggles at me upon seeing his mistake. This is not an appropriate response for throwing your shoe on my laptop, buddy.
I post up in the Alaska lounge (brewery, not airline) to await my friend Hether's arrival from Portland. While sitting in the restaurant, I see two very familiar, although burnt faces, walking down the terminal. It’s the best friend and her fiancée and shortly after, her sis and her boyfriend. This sighting elates me as seeing anyone in an airport is exciting. They leave shortly after and almost without a lull, I hear Hether shout "You are literally right here!" Apparently her gate was closer than she had thought and this pleases her greatly.
She is anything but subtle.
And we're off. Next stop Miami.
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