Houston George Bush Intercontinental Airport (IAH)

April 9, 2008: Tropical Noises

In Houston, upstairs at Pappaduex, a New Orleans style place in the E terminal.  Jim and I have FIVE hours to kill before our flight to Merida, Mexico.  I'm drinking Pinot Noir, believing that my vacation has truly started while Jim is frantically tying up the loose ends of his real estate business utilizing the last of some iffy internet and cell phone coverage. This is the first time since he's been in real estate that we'll be in a locale where there will likely be NO cell phone or internet.  He's in a panic over it. I can't wait.

A large man next to me orders raw oysters.  They come on a huge plate.  The oysters are embedded in loads of ice, but the plate is leaking like a sieve.  He tells the young bar-boy as water cascades from the bar onto his leather shoes.

"I think this plate is leaking."

"It's just sweating." The bar-boy explains and waves off the concern.

The large man and I exchange glances and then we both laugh out loud. Instead of insisting bar-boy do something (bar-boy is quite busy), the man stands, adjusts his stool and positions himself behind it, out of the splash zone.  The water is making pleasant tinkling and splashy noises as it splatters to the floor. It runs and puddles here and there. From behind the stool, the man leans over, stretching to reach his oyster and slurps them all down one by one. He acknowledges, and even encourages me to watch his process, and we both continue to giggle as bar-boy breezes past, oblivious.  Jim is oblivious too, yakking on the phone. Poor thing. 

Once the oyster task is accomplished, the large man puts some cash into the water on his plate, laughs out loud again, shaking his head and leaves. After a few moments the older and much more pleasant bartender comes by and grabs the plate revealing a huge, gaping hole in the bottom.  The bartender sticks his finger through the hole and wiggles it at me.  Then he looks through the hole and looks to the right and the left.  He shrugs.  I shrug back.

The bar is very crowded, but the stool next to me remains empty.  It's wet and there is a large puddle around it.  I warn many people who approach.  They look around at the mess and quickly find another spot.  The bartenders show no concern.

Across the bar from me is a gay couple in their 60's.  They are on a "leisure trip" I hear them telling the babes around them. The men and the babes are chatting it up. The babes really are babes.  One is headed to Merida and talks glowingly of the city.  She is what I would call "scantily clad" in a halter-top and killer heels. She is traveling alone.  I am fascinated by her--and so are the other gay guys. At some point, a moment of distraction I suppose, the jauntier of the gay guys raises his visor to rub his head. I am stunned as his hair come off with his visor. He rubs his bald head a bit and them replaces the visor.  His hair gives him a very youthful look.  It's grey but wild and spiked.  I would have never guessed that it was part of the visor. I laugh out loud.

"Another Pinot?" Bar-boy points to my almost empty glass.

"You bet."

The bar has quite a tropical theme going on.  On top of the tinkling and splashing oyster plate, there are also random bird chirps and squawks.  But at some point in the five hour binge there is another strange noise.  Many of us do that muppet-looking-at-the-sky-for-God move in response to the sound. From across the bar a woman makes serious eye contact with me and mouths "What was that?" I mouth back, "I have no idea."  We raise our glasses to each other and life goes on.

And then Heather is here! We are fully distracted by her.  The hugs.  The laughs. The catching up. Her layover is just 45 minutes, which means we are so much closer to our flight to Merida! Suddenly SQUAWK!  SQUAWK! The bird noise is deafening!  Who turned up the volume? That woman across the bar is making serious eye contact with me again--but wait--not exactly with me.  I turn, and right beside me, just behind Heather is a man with a huge green bird on his shoulder.  That dude was here with his bird the whole time.  I thought it had been a recording. SQUAWK! The bird says again.

The glass is full again.  Heather and I toast the bird and tropical vacations.  Jim finally hangs up the phone.  And it begins.

Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport (PHX)

June 2007: Illegal Immigrants!  Stealing out jobs!

I just spent a week at the fabulous Wigwam resort in Litchfield Park, AZ on the Department of Education's dollar (it's dirt cheap at the Wigwam when the temps average 115 degrees.). Now I'm at Sky Harbor headed to Philly for a summer visit with the family. I'm in this tiny bar in old terminal two--which seems like the least "sky harbor" terminal now, being little and simple and lacking towering parking garages on either side and above.  The bar has six stools and two tables with two chairs each.  It's packed.  Beside me is a very cute, very Phoenix-looking blonde. He's athletic but not bulked out.  Thin and tan, I'm guessing he's an engineer or in some corporate sales job.  He has the blue-eyed, all American look that could easily sell. It's not long before we are chatting, exchanging the usual where-ya-headed info.  He's going to Winnipeg.

"For work?" I ask.

He chuckles into his beer and says, "Kind of."  He then proceeds to tell me all the trials and tribulations related to being a canadian working in the United States.  He tells me how often he has to go back to Canada to renew his visa, and all the paperwork he has to fill out and how easy it is to forget and fall behind.

"What's you job?" I ask.

"Well, I'm kind of between jobs right now. My last job had to lay me off cause I forgot to renew my visa." It was a computer company, big name like Dell or Gateway or something I forget. Then he's off on a soapbox about US immigration law, but more importantly, how at fault his company was in not doing the paperwork for him. 

I'm nodding, agreeing that it's a tough process. I'm about to begin telling him about my experience with immigrants and the immigration process when I suddenly realize: "Oh my God! You're an illegal alien!"

This is after two glasses of wine and my tactfulness might have been lacking.

"Well, kind of." He says, furrowing his brow and swirling his beer. He looks pensive as if this is a new concept for him.

I am laughing out loud now, "I know quite a few immigrants with expired documents," I tell him, "but none of them would be stupid enough to tell a stranger about it in an airport bar!" He did not seem offended, though I thought he should have been. "Must be because you're blonde and not brown," I said.

He shrugged and swirled his beer.  It was obvious that he did not associate himself with illegal immigrants, and definitely not the brown ones.  I couldn't stop shaking my head, but I did try to muffle the laughter.  He went on complaining about the bureaucracy and how unfair the system had been to him.  Maybe he had no sense of irony, but I simply could not handle it.  I remember reading once, a long time ago, that the highest number of illegal immigrants working in Los Angeles were canadians.  

As I listened to him go on, I couldn't help thinking of my clients, friends and neighbors who have to wait decades for work permits.  Those who are separated from husbands or wives or even children for years and years with little hope of reunion. Those living in tiny unfurnished apartments with eight other exhausted men sleeping on inflatable mats strewn all over the floors sending every cent home, dreaming of a day when their families will all be together and living in houses in some nicer part of town. Each time I try to bring up stories like these, he swirls his beer and resumes talking about himself.  These struggles are not connected to him.  These stories bounce off.

Not only was this blonde 20-something no longer humoring me, I was actually beginning to not like him.  I drained my glass and left the bar without saying adios.

Detroit Metropolitan Wayne County Airport (DTW)

July 2006, Heaven on Earth

Going home after Nate and Erin's wedding. Gemma and Keith got me to the airport two hours early thanks to good traffic and Keith's nervous pedal foot.  I have to say, as an aside, that Gemma's superpower is seeing road-side animals.  The amount of wildlife we saw on the drive here, while doing 85 mph, was unbelievable. 

After a quick tour of the old terminal at Detroit, I'm in the only bar in the concourse. I sit and order a pinot noir. In a few moments a gentleman comes in and sits beside me.

"Damn flies!" He says to the bartender, smiling, a huge grin really, and waving his hand around his head.

"I will get them!" The bartender declares holding up his fly-swatter. I had been watching the bartender go after flies since I got here. He and the gentleman have a brief conversation about chasing flies. "Clean!  This is a clean bar!" The bartender cries after missing one. SWAP! "Got it." 

"Flies don't bother me compared to those mosquitos in the north woods.  Big as dinner plates!  And can they bite? Mary and Joseph!" The gentleman beside me says.

I like the use of Mary and Joseph without the traditional "Jesus" beginning, and I smile his way.

"Just been to an AWESOME wedding in the north woods of Michigan," he tells me.

"No kidding!  Me too!" I am genuinely amazed.  I briefly wonder if we were at the same wedding.  I didn't know all of Erin's people, but surely I would recognize him. We begin to chat.  

"Where you headed?" He asks.

"Tucson" I say. 

"Me too!  You from there?"

We have the classic not-quite-a-native conversation about Tucson, and we are suddenly great chums! 

"What are the chances?" I say, but we immediately agree that these kind of synchronicities should be expected.

"It was my son Liberty's wedding," he tells me. "Liberty's an interesting name doncha think?" 

I have to agree that it's not common.

"When Lib was born his mom and I couldn't agree on a name. So I grabbed the biggest book from the bookcase behind my desk and we agreed to ask God to give him a name.  We asked God to give him a name that would keep my son free of the nastiness of the world. When I flipped open the book the first thing I read was the phrase 'sons of liberty.' Then, twice more I laid my finger on the word liberty on different pages.  We decided there was no struggling with fate."

He goes on to tell me that his son's middle name is Robertson.  He waits, clearly wanting me to ask about the significance of Robertson, so I do.

"I'm Robert!" He answers robustly and thrusts his hand forward for a shake.  I ask if his son's middle name really is Robertson for that reason and he says, "Yup."

Robert goes on to tell me that he and his wife had a second son, and when Lib was five and the baby was two, the mother was killed in an automobile accident. His life story continues: He was in the army.  He was a musician and a songwriter. Now he is a caterer.

"I've got my own catering company with some other guys," he tells me, "All started from an experiment to find a fat-free or low-fat cheesecake recipe. I ended up creating one.  Seriously, almost fat free!"

"Wow." I say.

He continues, "My buddy really liked it and the company grew from there."

There is a pause and he asks a few more questions about me and my life.

"When I was a kid there was no diagnosis of ADD or anything like that. No drugs for hyper kids. My poor parents just had to put up with me!" He laughs from the middle of his chest.  Loud and deep. I can suddenly imagine him on stage. "My parents tried special diets and vitamins, but I'm just hyper, you know."

I nod.

"The wedding was awesome."  He's staring at the bottles behind the bar. "Man, it was great. I put on this cape and danced as James Brown on the dance floor. I DANCED! Me and Lib, we were the first ones dancing and last ones off the floor."  He tells me that Lib lives in Phoenix, and among other things, he has an internet radio station of '70's funk music. "He has some collection of funk.  Some rare stuff." Robert raises his eyebrows and his forehead crinkles.  I am suddenly touched by how much he loves Lib.  Something in his eyes made me almost want to cry.

Robert tells me many more things about this life.  The amazing thing about his undiagnosed ADD is it gives him the ability to talk, almost monologue.  He completely mesmerizes me. I feel like I say barely a word and yet I'm fully part of the conversation.

He tells me about the religion he subscribes to.  Started by some guy (He told me the name, but I forget) who is responsible for many things in our world today (He gave me examples, but I forget.).

"It's totally nonjudgmental," he says, "and there's a church in Tucson."

I nod.

"You know, I really believe this: Heaven is now.  You have to experience some hell on earth to appreciate heaven.  Hell is now too. But it all depends on you.  If you can find heaven on earth, then there is more heaven to follow. You gotta enjoy it."

That made a lot sense to me.

Cincinnati/Northern Kentucky International Airport (CVG)

May 1, 2006: Citrus and Cherry Scents

I was in Kentucky with Jim because his Mom had an emergency hip replacement.  Jim's staying in KY a little longer.  I'm at Cincinnati airport between Lexington and Atlanta flights.  On my way home.   I'm drinking Fosters at Max and Irma's, sitting at the far end of the bar.  When I walked in a very chatty woman with long dark hair and tiny disco ball earrings offered me the seat beside her.  She looks to be in her mid-twenties. A little voice inside told me to decline and I did.

"You'll be able to see the TV better from here," She said patting the bar stool's seat.

"Nah." I said.

She eyed me suspiciously and I half expected her to call me a queer. Then she turned back to the two men sitting on the other side of her. 

She's sitting with two very drunk men.  One is wearing a t-shirt that says "Sometimes I amaze myself." He has a Sicilian look.  He's got a big belly and heavy lidded dark eyes.  His face is puffy.  His hands are often pushing a thin comb-over back into place.  His thick southern drawl is slurred. He seems like a character I vaguely remember from Bugs Bunny cartoons. 

Next to him is a man with curly red hair.  He has blue eyes that remind me of the liner of my parent swimming pool.  Blue pebbles. His black t-shirt says NASCAR Staff. No southern accent.

"I love NASCAR." Chatty lady says to them, rejoining their group.  There is a brief conversation about NASCAR (I gather that a much longer NASCAR conversation has already happened. I also gather that these two men work for NASCAR.). "I can't believe you know Jimmy Johnson! I'm so totally into him!"

Chatty lady seems to refocus on the furniture catalogue the two men are pouring over. They crunch together closer so that they can all get clear views of the images.

"Does that come in cherry?" The red head asks.

"What you see there comes in citrus and cherry." She chirps.

"That'd look nice," the sicilian says to the red head, who nods. One of them turns a page.

 

"Those have some real cheery colors!  Go to the website, seriously, you'll love this stuff!  One day shipping from Florida!"

This seems to impress the men who nod. The sicilian mumbles something about candles.

"Candles!  Here--" She takes the catalogue and flips ahead. Soon she's off and running describing in detail the company's candles, "They're the best, seriously, no one can beat them.  Go to the website, seriously."

Sicilian says, "I buy all these scented candles at Christmas, but when you burn 'em they don't smell enough.  Pretty soon they don't smell like nothin'"

"These candles will hold their scent until they are burnt to puddles!  Even the melted wax holds the scent!" She's wagging a finger at the sicilian who raises his eyebrows.

They have reached the last page of the catalogue.  

"Check out the website guys.  You'll love this stuff."  Last words. The catalogue is closed and remains on the bar.  All three turn toward the television, which I just notice, is showing NASCAR, and in perfect synchronicity light up cigarettes and blow smoke to the ceiling. 

Dallas/Fort Worth international Airport (DFW)

June 2005, Flying While Black

I'm returning to Tucson from PA, happy to be halfway home and sipping wine. To my left are three characters who engage me some mild chit chat.  At the far end of our cluster is a large woman with a south Philly accent.  She has a loud laugh which feels generous. She's going to Tucson too and we recognized each other from the bar in PHL. Beside her is a classic Dallas blonde bombshell who is already tipsy and wiggles her manicured fingers over her red zinfandel when she talks. Between Dallas-gal and me is a black man named Derreck with an African-sounding last name. Without Derreck the rest of us would never have become a grouping.

Derreck, who fascinates us all, tells exciting stories about his success that combined with the generous laugh of Philly-lady and the wiggling red nails of Dallas-gal makes me feel incredibly optimistic. 

I order my merlot and Derreck asks the waitress for a napkin.  I get my drink, but no napkin appears for Derreck.

Derreck tells us about how he worked for a small internet company that was bought by Yahoo!! He tells is it so enthusiastically that Dallas-gal actually says "Yaaa-hoo!" and would have waved her cowboy hat, had she been wearing one.  Instead, the fingers wiggle a little faster than normal and don't fold into her palms when she's finished.

"Now I get to travel ALL OVER," Derreck actually beams as he says this. I'm grinning too.  There is something beautiful and refreshing about the way he makes us all feel successful.

He tries to flag the waitress again, and is ignored again.  I notice the frustration on his face. The waitress asks Philly-lady how she's doing.  Derreck leans across Dallas-gal to get the waitress' attention.  I am shocked as the waitress appears to actively ignore him, yet slaps the napkin he was requesting onto the bar without looking his way.  Derreck takes a deep breath while studying the napkin. Then, he seems pleased to have the napkin and shows no indications of anger.

Derreck proceeds to tell us the ins and outs of traveling all the time for work.  Dallas-gal is especially interested in learning about valet parking at the Dallas airport.

"Such a time saver!" Derreck proclaims. Then excused himself from conversation to make a rental car call to Los Angeles. When he hangs up, he drains his beer.  The waitress is refilling Dallas-gal's zin and Derreck asks for a refill, "Please?".  The waitress walks away without acknowledging that she hears him. "Hey!" He calls after her. "Excuse me!" He's standing on the rung of his stool leaning over the bar.  Amazingly, his tone is not angry.

She returns and pours him a beer, saying nothing.

"Thanks!" Derreck chirps. 

I am impressed with his control, and wish I had some of Derreck's characteristics.

Dallas/Fort Worth international Airport (DFW)

September 2004, Who Were Those Masked Ministers?

I squeeze myself in at the end of the bar at the TGIFriday's in terminal C.  I'm standing on my toes, leaning and stretching to shout my drink order to the bartender. Beside me is an older man and a younger man.  The younger man looks too young to drink, but he's holding a beer. Our luggage is piled together in such a stack that I briefly ponder crafting my own bar stool out of it.  I decide it might be dangerous.  I hover over the pile instead.  

The men are talking about "the service." I'm only half listening because I'm distracted by their demeanor with each other. I wonder if they are father and son.  Doesn't seem like it. They have too much familiar ease (Was that an ironic statement?). Maybe they are uncle and nephew. Maybe lovers. I settle on lovers. Older man keeps leaning in to make another point. Younger man nods, looks over, makes a brief response and reverts to gazing at the TV behind the bar.  They are very comfortable together.  Enough to hold a friendly conversation while barely paying attention to each other.

"We're getting ready to leave." Older man says to me, "Do you want this seat?"

"Sure." I say.

"We're headed back to Vermont." Older man continues.

I nod.

"We were here for my mother's funeral." Older man says.

"I'm sorry," I respond.

"Been coming for a long time," he says and finishes his beer. "We're ministers," he tells me.

I nod again, this time adding a "Hmm." to note my mild interest. I note that I was right to suspect they were not related.

"He came down to do the service." Older man indicates Younger man.

I'm dying to ask why, but they are suddenly occupied with slinging luggage on to their shoulders and bustling out.  I watch them go, still filled with questions, and order a quesadilla.

Dallas/Fort Worth international Airport (DFW)

March 2004, Cowtown Bar, I Hope Michael Moore Reads This

"It's not as good as you think." She tells me, taking a big swig of her Molson.

"Really?"

"No. A lot of Canadians come to the U.S. for surgeries."

"Why?"

"Because they don't have to wait," she raises her eyebrows.

"But do they pay for American surgeries?" I ask, picturing the bills for thousands and thousands of dollars.

"Yes."

I gasp. "The cost beats the wait?" This is very hard to believe!  I thought Canadians loved their healthcare!  

"Yes."

"Wow. That's pretty bad."

She is a short haired women in khaki pants and a plain white t-shirt.  She appears to be neat and orderly and wears burgundy tinged rectangular glasses.  She is sitting alone at the corner of the bar when I join her. She starts the conversation by asking, "Where ya headed?"  I respond and ask her the same question.

"Montreal."

"Are you Canadian?" I ask.

"I live there, but I grew up in San Antonio.  I was there for my mother's funeral."

"I'm sorry," I say.

"She was old," She says, shrugging and gulping her beer.

We talk about old age, retirement and nursing homes, which leads us to the topic of socialized healthcare.

I take away two morals: 1.) The grass is always greener, and 2.) If you've got the money you can get the services, but you might not want to get them in Canada unless you've got a lot of time on your hands and you'd prefer to spend the money on jewels or trips to expensive places like Moscow.

Tucson International Airport (TUS)

June 2004, Last Chance Saloon

"Do you remember me?" I ask.

"Yes, she says.  "You'd like a merlot." My heart sinks.  "How's your granddad?" She asks.

I could cry.  "Fran," I say, "I feel just terrible."

"Oh!  I'm so sorry!" Her eyes wet with sympathy.

"No, no, my grandfather is still doing OK.  I feel terrible because the last time I was here I asked you to break a twenty so I could tip you and then I left without tipping you!" I'm begging for forgiveness.  I hate the thought of kind and good Fran holding bitterness in her heart toward me.  It would be like Mother Teresa spitting at you.

"You did?" She asks, putting on that sweet smile and lowering her eyes to watch my glass fill.

"Yes!" I proclaim, "So take this, please!" I hand her a twenty dollar bill.

"No!" She says, humbly, waving a napkin at me, "Oh no!"

"Yes!" I insist, "This has been on my conscience ever since it happened. Please. Help me out."

"Well, OK." She blushes as she takes the money and I am released. Still loved by Fran! From then on, when she saw me coming, the merlot was in the glass waiting for me before I even got to the bar, and she always asked about my Granddad.

Tucson International Airport (TUS)

May 2004, The Last Stop Saloon

"My grandfather is dying," I say to the bartender. She tells me her name is Fran.

"I'm so sorry." she says.

Three merlots (my flight was delayed) and a chicken quesadilla later, I ask Fran to break a twenty, "so I can give you a tip," I say.

She counts out five, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen seventeen, eighteen nineteen and twenty and pushes the bills toward me. Fran has the kindest face.  I could fall in love with her. That's not the merlot talking either.

"Thanks!" I say and proceed to shove the cash into my wallet with great effort.  Somewhere over Las Cruces the flight attendant hands me a plastic cup of water, and I realize it.  Of shit! I didn't tip Fran!

Chicago O'Hare (ORD)

July 2004: Out-living My Expectations

My sister calls.  "How's Poppy?" I ask without saying hello. I expect the worst. 

"He's sitting up.  Reading the comics." She says.

"WHAT?" I raise my voice, "he's supposed to be dead!"  

I'm at PF Changs in O'Hare.  I'm drinking Merlot and eating squash soup. Just five hours earlier I was relaxing at home in the hammock with a book, the dog asleep on the bricks below me. The monsoon clouds were roiling along the mountains and some distant thunder rumbles were sounding promising.  Then I got the call, bought this ticket, re-arranged my whole life and left for the airport in less than 30 minutes. Poppy's dying, my sister told me. This is it. Get here now. 

The guy next to me at the bar looks over. 

"Well, that's good, but I can't believe it." I say, lowering my voice.

"I KNOW!" My sister sounds incredulous "We really thought this time was it."

I am suddenly filled with guilt.  I'm glad he's not dead.  He'll still be there when I arrive tonight. I am a little angry though.  The hammock, the book, the pooch and the thunder...not to mention the simple pleasure of being home for a weekend with nothing to do.

"I'm glad I'm coming home." I say.

"I know." She says.

"I'll be glad to see him," I say.

"You will," She says.