Well. I’m here in an airport bar.

Here are the details:

1. I have the honor of speaking and assisting at a rehabilitation facility on the East coast this week, and I’m also planning on using this time to work on Book Three… the Book That is Gestating Really Slowly. Boy. That makes it sound like a real New York Times bestseller.
2. My flight is at 6 pm. I was SUPPOSED to leave exactly 13 hours earlier than this, but evidently I needed to work on my controlling tendencies and thus: Big Huge Blizzard in April. I realize that assuming that a weather event was summoned simply to help Dana and her issues, but maybe?
3. The woman from American Airlines who helped me find a new flight yesterday was seriously the nicest, calmest, most soothing woman on the planet. They should book her a Ted talk. I love her. I could hear in the background, another airlines helper saying, “I KNOW you need to get on the plane, ma’am, but there is simply NO PLANE ON WHICH TO GET,” and I felt bad for all of us.
4. I wanted to tell my American Airlines woman that I did indeed love her, after we had a fascinating discussion of all the airports within a four hour radius of my house and how none of them could fly me anywhere for a while, but I didn’t. I should have, though. That wouldn’t have been weird at all.

Here is how our convo did go, actually:

Me: So, I’m supposed to be there by one pm on Sunday.

Her: Yes. No. That won’t work. We can get you there Monday.

Me. Sunday?

Her: No, Monday, ma’am. That’s on a Monday.

Me: *small voice* but really, Sunday, then?

 

She was incredibly patient and helped me work through the Five Stages of Grief About Flying in about twenty minutes and YES I REALLY LOVE YOU, AMERICAN AIRLINES WOMAN.

So, here I am, back in a bar. My airport beloved Chick fil A is closed (and I commend you, Chick fil A for the whole Sabbath thing. But, might I just say? When it comes to me and my actual hunger I sometimes wish you weren’t so into Jesus and were more into feeding me waffle fries when I needed them. But again, we’re back to that control thing and I’m gonna go pray about it. But those fries are straight up HOLY, I tell you. They’re Jesus fries.)

I am seated at the bar and the man to my left is having a Dewars, double, with a twist, lime, on the rocks. (Not like I’m keeping track of exactly every order at this bar. I would not. His wife ordered a pinot grigio but then she changed her mind to a rose and oh my goodness I am so an alcoholic).

They were both just sitting there, reading something on their phones, and not drinking those drinks. I repeat, those drinks are sitting on the counter before them. Not being drinked.

And THEN, they ate their dinner and proceeded to leave for their flight and they DIDN’T FINISH THE DRINKS.

The weirdos.

Airport bars are always kind of interesting. Depending on the fatigue level and the time of day, you can observe some really funky behavior, which is always entertaining. I have noticed too, except for the couple to my left, that most people in bars order doubles and talls and just generally BIG ASS DRINKS. It’s a thing.

But oh, how I used to love an airport bar. I actually didn’t drink too much. I never did that in public places. That kind of frivolity (read: eventual sobbing and maybe even a fight with Brian for added flair) was saved for my couch and my cats to witness. Bless them. But at an airport… the stress of travel was always a great excuse to drink at 11 am and feel… all jet-setty about it. And some people can do that. Some people can do that just fine.

But not me. Because my name is Dana. And I’m an alcoholic.

 

Post script: This airport does not win the Best Food category by any means (I’m looking at you, Austin airport with all your artisanal hipster tacos! You rock!) But… I did order a greek salad and it was SO GOOD. So, as I am always finding, especially when I travel, God does like to give me little nudges and tell me, all the time, that he will give me a really good Greek salad instead of a travel mug vodka, any day.

You might ask, “Is he really in charge of all those details, Dana? Even a salad? I mean, your entire flight was CANCELLED.” Look, what I do know is that he’s in charge of my feeling of peace and serenity right now, even as I try to eat this Big Salad without dropping feta in my lap and smearing myself with olive oil. Not a good look for the seasoned traveler. And he gives me these moments all. The. Time. I just have to look.

 

Obligatory food shot here: