Coming home from Merida, we're back in Houston's terminal E. This time we're sitting under Pappadeux at the food court. No alcohol. Jim and I both have serious bouts of Turista and don't want to have to run to the restroom between Houston and Tucson. I watch an Indian family interact at a nearby table. Husband takes the 5-year-old away. Wife cares for an infant who doesn't want to eat. No sir. Black ladies at a nearby table help. They pick up the kicked off shoes, the tossed bottles, and even the dropped food with coos and smiles and comments like "How sweet." Jim and I sit with out fizzy cokes and gurgle, trying to appreciate it all. But the closest restrooms are closed for cleaning. It seems that restrooms in Houston George Bush Intercontinental Airport are often closed. Clean, but closed.
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