The multitude of conversations in this fully booked flight is like being at the Superbowl XXXVIII halftime show, but without the entertainment.This persists throughout the flight. The hop from RIC ➟ CLT takes 75 minutes. The beverage service takes about 90 minutes — the flight attendants begin preparing for it prior to takeoff and continue cleanup after landing. I'm convinced that the only reason they bother with the beverage service is to distract passengers from being preoccupied that this airborne culvert could be diverted into the nearest skyscraper at any minute. Finally we touchdown in CLT and the cacaphony of cellphones powering up is reminiscent of the London Philharmonic under the direction of Peter Schickele, all under an epileptic siezure. CLT has six concourses, A-E. After being dumped into Concourse B, I prepare for an 8 hour layover.
At the nexus of the six concourses UsAirways has an atrium. Made of exposed metal beams and a lot of glass, the atrium has all of the ambience of an aircraft hangar, with piped in dental-chair music to boot. Sitting in one of the 32 rocking chairs in atrium, I numbly watched the skycap taxi orbit the concourse every thirty seconds with the Doppler beep-beep-beep sounding like the Sputnik 1 on amphetamines.
After a few hours I need something to drink so I leave the atrium and head for the nearest Starbucks. I'm a little hesitant to enter because I'm lacking the requisite wi-fi laptop, but hey — this is America! My plastic is just a good as the next girl's! After all that sitting, my ankles look like 2 plump sausages.
Finished with my coffee, I brave the autopedescalator back in the direction of the atrium. Looking out at the many jets nosed up to the concourse seems like so many shoats nuzzling up to the mama sow. And most of the jets have some sort of recycle symbol on the nose, indicating either that it is made of old Coke cans or will be melted down to make new Coke cans when they are done with it.
Back in the atrium I'm watching a curious species — Kingdom:Animalia; Phylum:Chordata; Class:Mammalia; Order:Primates; Family:Hominidae; Genus:Homo; Species:H. sapiens; Subspecies:H. s. gadaboutiens. It's an unusual species, characterized by a giant leech in one ear and a rectangular box (with wheels!) — but with no evident utility — affixed to their dexter manus. They engage in an auto-monologue, sometimes raising their voices to obnoxious levels, mostly while walking. The rectangular box, I have deduced, has evolved for strengthening their arm. This is evidenced by some who have an additional box lashed to the one on wheels — presumably for extra strengthening. The concourse is abuzz with cops deftly maneuvering their squeegees, skycap taxis, and gadaboutiens.
After a couple of hours of watching this absolutely enthralling and thoroughly captivating scene, I'm ready for something stronger than Starbucks. My ankles and feet now look like 2 water balloons stuffed into a pair of surgical gloves. I'm tempted to ride the Sputnik, but force myself to hoof it to The Original Rum Bar.
"Weary traveler, what'll you have ma'am?"
"Black Russian, please." the bartender quickly tosses and serves me the Kahlúa & house vodka.
"Do you want to close this out or run a tab?"
"That depends on how much they are?"
"$13.75"
"One's my limit."
I needed that. Only 5 more hours of layover.
