Krista and I are on our way to Florida today, to meet with everyone else in the US who does the same job as me.
It looked like Hurricane Ike might make our planned meeting place (Daytona Beach) difficult, so everyone sent in their thoughts for alternative meeting places. Which means that I'm sitting here thinking, "Why am I flying to Florida instead of Hawaii, Paris, or Amish country?"
Nothing of great importance to note today at the Portland airport. I am struck by how everyone looks familiar after you fly enough, and you're stuck there trying to figure out if you've actually been on a plane with these people before, or if you're inventing things in your mind.
The guy who looks most familiar is a white-haired old gentleman with a handlebar mustache. He's wearing a blazer and a checkered shirt and he has that harmless, friendly look that guarantees that as soon as you turn your back he's going to shove a cloth soaked in chloroform over your mouth. Or maybe that's only in the movies, I get confused.
Also here, the Japanese girl reading a book while wearing noise-canceling earphones. The young family with a baby. The woman whose lips are so close to her cell phone that it looks like she's kissing it. The fat guy with too many bags. The business guy who's flying first class, but he's still standing as close as he can get to the jetway so that when the attendant calls first class, he'll be the first one onto the plane. The tattooed lady with the nose rings and conservative scarf. The mariachi band. All old friends, although I don't know their names.
Be safe today, my friends. And stay away from the old guy with the handlebar mustache.