Read this. By Lance. So true.

I look around me. I’m traveling first class, which I think is a mistake, but I’m going with it. I typed in my origin and my destination into our corporate travel web site and this is what came up. First class. I’m going to play along until someone stops me. This is what I see around me. Three older white men sleeping. Hands crossed in laps, head bowed. Two men (plus me) working on laptops. One on a work document, one organizing downloaded music files. And me. Observing them. One man reading the NWA magazine, concentrating on the article “A Ticket to the World,” news about Northwest’s partner airlines. Or maybe he’s sleeping. No, he’s really reading. Not sure why, but he is. Now he’s studying the types of planes Northwest flies. 16 747-400s. 17 747-200s. 8 A330-300s. 22 Dc-10s. 72 757-200/-300s. 148 A319/A320s. 164 DC-9-10/-20/-40/-50s. 36 RJ-85s. 94 CRJs. 64 Saab 340s. And the North American route systems. Where the hubs are. Where the flights go to. Now he’s joined the ranks of the sleepers. A man to my left, reading a paperback novel. Tom Clancy, perhaps???? Why am I the only woman in first class? The man next to me, awake now, listening to his iPod. Scanning through artists, selecting the one perfect one. Still scanning, still circling. More, more, more. Stop. Yes, that’s the one. Wish I could tell you what he was listening to, but can’t see it because of the glare. Two men in front of me, talking about a radio campaign. One sniffing a lot, as though he’s done too much cocaine in his lifetime. “Yeah, that’s what we’ll do. Rad, man. Yeah. That’s it…” sniff, sniff, sniff…. A gnat flying around. I’ve tried to swat it several times, unsuccessfully. There it goes again. Fly, fly, fly…. Over my wine glass, over the man sleeping next to me… Fly, fly, fly… I’ll get you. Yes, I will.

I’ve currently read a string of unusually really good books. Word Freak, about professional Scrabble players. Middlesex, about a Greek American hemaphrodite growing up in Detroit. Currently, Eats, Shoots, and Leaves, The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation. I love punctuation; I love language. Knowing this, Emmy gave me a book about the history and nuances of punctuation for my birthday. And I love it. My favorite quote from the book so far, “In fact one might dare to say that while the full stop is the lumpen male of the punctuation world (do one job at a time; do it well; forget about it instantly), the apostrophe is the frantically multi-tasking female, dotting hither and yon, and succumbing to burn-out from all the thankless effort (p. 46).” Long live the apostrophe.

Airports also provide an unprecedented arena for people watching. I see single moms, trying to comfort uncomfortable children. Children screaming, wailing, wanting to be anywhere but in an airport. I see couples, about to be separated, exchanging hugs, tender embraces, kisses, sweet nothings. I see business travelers purposely striding to their gates, anxious to leave their business city and return back to their home. I see vacationers, relishing the last moments of freedom before returning to the mundane existence of day to day life. But best of all, I see.

Walking to my hotel room, I saw the sign on the conference room door, “Hooters of America.” Curious, I glanced in. Yep. Middle aged beer belly white man interviewing fresh young things. It couldn’t get any better than this. I’m always thinking “What if….” What if I got laid off tomorrow? What would I do? Where would I go? Did I want to be a Hooters’ waitress in Detroit? The days are long, the nights are cool. Could be just as interesting as my year in Korea, come to think of it.

“Welcome to Detroit, where we have two seasons, winter and construction,” my aunt greeted me. True, so true. I haven’t seen a flake of snow, but have seen fourteen roadblocks, detours, and miles upon miles upon orange barrels upon my arrival into the Detroit metropolitan area.

It’s true. Construction everywhere. In the one mile drive to the Mervyn’s store, two detours. It’s good to be orange in Michigan.

I love airports. The combination of hope and possibility. Yes, I was scheduled to go to Detroit, but where would I end up? I stared at the departures’ board. Amsterdam. Atlanta. Baltimore. The list continued. Seoul. Singapore. What if I simply went up to the counter and told them I wanted to change my ticket? No more first class to Detroit. Let’s go to Walla Walla instead.

My favorite sign from Sunday’s Gay Pride Parade:

“I love my wife!

I love my life!

You can’t amend that!”

We went to see The Twilight Samurai at the Balboa, one of the old movie houses of San Francisco. Having come straight from work by way of happy hour, I was starving. I ordered a medium popcorn. It came to $3. I commented what a bargain it was. The concession boy offered, “Well, you could have gotten this tub (pointing to the super sized gallon receptacle) for only a dollar more.” I stared at its vastness. “Uhm. Thanks, but there’s no way I could eat all that popcorn.” He countered, “Well, eat what you can, take the rest home for the kids.”

Kids? How old did he think I was?

I mentioned this to Emily as we took our seats. “Lori, please.” Yes, I was vindicated. Emily would confirm I didn’t look old enough to have children. That’s what best friends are for.

“Lori. Not only are you old enough to have kids, you’re old enough to have kids that work at this theater.”

Ouch.

They surrounded me. The little girl, no more than 6, sat facing the back of the bus, wrangling for attention from the two boys, maybe 8, maybe her brothers, behind me. I tried to read my New Yorker, but their conversation was much more engrossing. One of the boys related the story of how he no longer shops at Ross because he pissed on the manager’s shoes and was escorted out. What???? I so wanted to turn around and see the teller of said story. They then turned to “yo momma” jokes.

“Yo momma’s so old I took her to see Jurassic Park and she started having flashbacks.”

“Well, yo momma’s so old I told her to act her age and she done died.”

It just wasn’t as fun when they got off the bus.