Terminal B
The loneliest place I know is the United airport lounge in terminal B at Chicago’s O’Hare where I’ve logged a considerable amount of time over the past 12 months. I’m here enough that the two Russian women who share the bar duties both know me and let me run a tab which in the lame world of the business traveler would be like Parisgetting her drinks comped at Chateau Marmont in Los Angeles. Around me are other travelers, mostly men fighting pot-bellies and tugging at their grey hair in an effort to make it appear longer than it is. The women are few but one stands out tonight- a tousled bleach blond who’s had a lengthy slurred conversation with the guy next to her over Cobra and the merits of a National Healthcare System. I can’t tell whether the guy is with her or not but I can tell that he’s spent more time looking at her boobs than listening to her talk.
The weather in Chicago is crappy, the weather in the Northeast is crappier and so there are delayed and cancelled flights replete with plenty of bitching about the state of US travel. The Europeans bitch the loudest but with the strength of the Euro, no one here gives a shit. Hey, buddy, your room at the Westin’s only running you about $20 bucks Euro so bite me. I heart Americans.
My second vodka gimlet has taken a soft grip on my brain and the muffled conversations flow between my ears like vapor. Politics (this is Chicagoso Obama dominates the conversations) and I’m surprised to hear how many people don’t think he walks on water which is exactly what the Chicago media seems to project: Obama may be as obvious a candidate in Illinois as Hillary might be in other parts of the country. The big news this week was Mitt Romney, his magic underwear and his win in Michigan. My fellow travelers and I don’t get it.
In 2002, even with his growing unpopularity, most Americans suggested that who they wanted to have a beer with played a big part in who they voted for. Evidently, people want to drink with Mitt. Ironically as a Mormon, he probably doesn’t drink at all. Not even a glass of champagne. I know who I’m voting for in the primaries but I need to figure out what candidate I like in the “other” party (without identifying my political leanings completely, previous blogs no doubt reveal where I sit).
Will cut this short. It’s looking as though the boobie-blond is providing way too much entertainment… and I don’t want to miss it.
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