I'm In Houston

I’m in Houston, Bush Int’l Airport. I thought BUSH stood for something, but no, they actually mean George. They actually have a statue of him standing here, a coat over his shoulder, a constipated look on his face.

The trip is almost over. Yesterday, my connecting flight missed the plane by 2 minutes. As a line of passengers screamed and complained after we were unable to board the next flight (3 hours later), a kind lady took me aside. I guess she sensed that I was on the verge of tears, full of exhaustion and concern for safety. “Are you traveling alone?” she asked. ”You look very young. “I remember what its like to be young. And I wouldn’t feel safe if you were to spend the night here’.” (Another Continental worker had booked me for a 10:30 am flight the next morning.) The woman rebooked me for a 755 departure to JFK, and hooked me up with hotel, and dinner and breakfast vouchers. I had prayed feverishly, so I guess she was my angel.

I missed the airport shuttle in the morning, too, but thank the Lord, another one came 15 minutes later.

A man a couple of seats away, a big, red, blonde man, paired with an obese woman in a flower shirt, is giving a couple of college students (freshmen, I think) advice on going to New York.

“You going to New York? Wear a hat, sunglasses. Never look anybody in the eye. You ever been to New York?”
“No,” they murmur.
“Well, you just go down to Penn Station and you look around. There’s a lot of people with sunglasses doing shady things. Oh,” he continues, “and never ever look up.”
I can’t take it anymore.
“It’s not that bad, sir” I interrupt.
He looks at me. “Well, you gotta understand, when I went down there before Giuliani was mayor, the crime rate was over 70%.”
“That was a long time ago,” I say.
“Well,” he drawls, and looks away.
The college couple keeps on about something about NYU. The man is quiet. I think I am sorry to curb his enthusiasm, but there’s no reason to go scaring people. Even if he has a point.

Ah, New York, New York. Here I come!