FRIDAY HAPPY HOUR: The airport bar

Posted: February 19, 2010 in FRIDAY HAPPY HOUR
Tags: , , , , , , ,

I’m in an airport right now.

Little early for the airport bar but got to thinking about them.

They annoy me with their faux atomsphere. Patrons who sit and don’t order anything or nurse a soda for four hours while they wait for their flight to Dayton piss me off. I hate the fact that a beer costs the same as my mortgage payment and the food is right up there with hospital fare.

Occassionally, though you meet someone who’s interesting. Travelers are often interesting. They’re out doing, living and experiencing things. Some times they’re fun to talk to.

I love to sit in the bar and watch airport people walk by. You can tell the ones who travel constantly. They have packing down to a science and have comfortable shoes.

People killing time often will talk more than those in a hurry. Sometimes they share more to a stranger than an aquaintance so you get to hear about their fears, passions, wants and desires.


Other times it’s families of four yelling at each other on their way back from their mandated Disney trip. I believe you shouldn’t be allowed in a bar unless you’re of drinking age. It has nothing to do with drinking. It has to do with keeping miserable children away from.

My plane is boarding.

See ya.

  1. Christine says:

    When you’re watching the people, do you imagine what their stories are? I’m not a writer, but I do that all the time.

    Amen to no-children zones. Sometimes, it’s not the kids but their cranky parents wigging-out that get on my nerves.

    Headed to Felonious February, yes? Enjoy, have safe travels and give Jen a hug for me will ya?

  2. D. B. Dean says:

    I approve of no children zones…i wish I had one in my house…a place with a forcefield that would keep my kids O. U. T. OUT!….sometimes even the bathroom I am not safe…

  3. Allie says:

    With the Gestapo TSA there is not many other places to go once you get through their ultimate check-in point. You can check-in but not check-out. Reminds me of the Roach Motels.

    So people make their choice, the bar or the black pouch seats. And for some reason, with my luck, the black pouch seats near my gate are usually being circled by the screaming hordes of children that seem to run loose in airports. Where my luck is with me is that the airport near me keeps kids away from bars, no exceptions.

    It is nice to see you kept your quirky sense of humor you had in high school. You were always the best to talk to in part because you had that great sense of humor, besides the fact you could have an intellgent conversation.

  4. Allie says:

    well, it was also nice talking to someone as tall as myself too. However, where we went to high school was not known for its great academic minds, then or now. I know, I am so arrogant, and always have been!

  5. Menzie says:

    The last time I traveled (via air), I sat myself down in my little black seat near the gate, with my book and my iPod. In a corner, out of the way, bothering no one. A family of four sat near me – two kids under 5. The kids immediately began running around; pressing their noses against the windows to look at the plane, running back and forth making “plane noises”, shrieking at each other in what was either a VERy foreign language or some alien-toddler code.

    And with every pass they made, they got closer and closer to where I was sitting with my feet stretched out. Every time they got close, I would look up to give them my best “I-am-a-toddler-eating-monster-and-possible-child-killer-get-the-hell-away-from-me” glare. And here’s the thing; every time I looked up to glare, those little crotchfruit were already looking at me with this “Aren’t I cute? Aren’t I, and everything I choose to do, adorable?” half-smile, expectant, waiting for me to tell them how awesome they were. And every time I glared, they looked puzzled. Obviously no one had ever in their lives suggested to them that they were other than a constant delight and soruce of endless joy.

    The parents, of course, were ignoring all this silent interplay, fondly beaming at their spawn, certain that I would love them as much as they themselves did. Finally, after one of the kids actually brushed my arm in one of his passes, I turned directly to the father and said “Excuse me. Excuse me!” And when he reluctantly looked up to meet my eyes, I said “Please ask your children to move away from me.” And he did, and then he and his wife looked at me sideays and grumbled darkly under their breath. And I didn’t care.

    I swear, one day I’m going to smack one of these little hellions, and guess – just guess? – who’ll be the one in trouble? ME, that’s who. Actually, the one I should be smacking is the parent; it’s not the kids’ fault no one has ever bothered to teach them one single manner.

    OK, I’m having a second glass of wine now.

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