I can tell I spent more than enough time outside this weekend because I apparently look swarthy enough for elderly Spanish women to ask me if I speak Spanish (enough) and what gate does their ticket say they are assigned (Pasco, WA was only just assigned to gate 35), and *am I busy*—or could I help them get there.
I got them onto the transfer shuttle, I do not have the skills to fly a plane. I also briefly paused to remember that “occupada” was not the false cognate for “pregnant”, which was a quick self-esteem check.
Though SFO has a bigger complement of agents; and I split my travels from this coast enough between SFO, OAK, and SJO; I believe I *have* gotten to second with Miss Rosefa Torres before. It’s a memorable enough name.
Also in the security line was a guy with a comically vast array of weird items in his carry-on who looked as if he WANTED to get pulled out of line so he could make a speech about, I don’t know…diversity. (He was Red-Irish* and was glumly putting his laptop/batteries back on top of the 14 prescription drug bottles and 3 books about Islam and the newspaper from Cairo, and the child sized galabiya, and so on, as Torres was not so subtly reaching into the final frontier that is in my pants.)
The guy who drove me to the airport was the nephew of a professor in whose periphery I have been for some 13 years.
These are the voyages.
*Red Irish is one of my favorite JackDonaghyisms, distinguishing Irishness as regards its Red and Black-haired manifestations. I believe he prepended it to “bastard”, but I have no beef with the security line crusader: I just take notes.
While one must ask this question carefully and at the right time, the payoff is great: The S.A.F.E. S.K.I.E.S. on T.S.A. badges is an acronym more secret and contrived than S.H.I.E.L.D. —amazing.
Here in my pants/
I know I’ve started to think/
About leaving tonight/
Although nothing seems right/
old me was not a misunderstood genius. (parse that as you will.)