Briana looked at her watch as she was getting off the bus. She only had five minutes until the train left. Only five minutes until she knew she would never come back. The train station was dark, damp, and smelled as old it was. Briana hadn't been on a train in twelve years, and was nervous about the four day trip across the country. All her savings, all her blood, sweat, and tears were worked up to this moment in time; The beginning of the future.

Literally just moments after her foot was inside the train's car it started on it's northern motion. Briana didn't necessarily have much money, but since this trip had been planned for months, she was able to splurge to get a bedroom on this leg of the train. She found her private roomette, 23B, and threw what little luggage she had on the floor. She sat on the reclining chair and was asleep within moments.

Briana Hazel Nomad was born July 23^rd in Oyster Bay, Long Island, New York. One of seven children, Bri was often unnoticed and didn't have rules to abide by. Since she was well behaved, no one took any notice when she disappeared in their eleven acre home. She'd come home naked covered in mud screaming that the hogs ate her clothes. And this was when she was a toddler. It was only a forewarning of her later years. Mom, Ann, and Dad, Alexander would get her cleaned up and in the highchair for dinner. She was the youngest and the only girl. Six older brothers, Jack, William, Benjamin, Richard, Lawrence, Aaron…and little Briana, but you can call her Bri.

Bri was born in the 1980's, the decade of Michael Jackson catching himself on fire, Vanessa Williams becoming the first black Miss America, NASA's Discovery Shuttle lands successfully on it's maiden voyage. The decade made up Bri's personality. Raw, edgy, intelligent, and just fuckin weird.

Bri woke up four hours into her trip. Only thirteen more hours until Washington, D.C.. She was face down and drooling on her self. She actually hadn't slept in days. Scared about leaving the town she'd lived in for years to somewhere she'd never really been, only heard about. A place where she'd fit in, a home where she'd feel like…well, like she was really home. A place, well, that needed three separate trains to get to.

She wiped off her face and fixed what little make-up she actually wore. She took a good long look in the mirror. Five foot two and about a hundred and ten pounds. Dark long brown hair, always up, rarely brushed, though she did not look unkempt. Dark brown eyes with naturally long eyelashes. Her skin tone was medium, she was of Greek and Egyptian decent, the Greek was prominent, and she had that soft to touch Mediterranean skin. She had rather average features, but there was something about her that made people stare as she walked by. Heads would turn, people often wore smiles as she passed by. She wasn't drop-dead gorgeous, but she had something that no one could quite put their finger on.

Briana decided to wander the train to kill some time. It was now about eight in the evening and she could use some dinner. She traveled through several cars of bedrooms, a few of open seats, and finally the dining car! It was packed. There was two levels and she decided to head to the top where she could smell the sweetness of cigarettes. She didn't smoke often, but she found the only empty booth and had a seat, lit her Camel Light and enjoyed the view of Florida whizzing by. Within moments a waitress came by and she ordered a sandwich, any kind of pie they had a bottle of water and Bacardi and Diet.

It only took eight minutes for a young group of guys ask if they could sit with her, and she accepted on the fact she had a total of four days to beat until she reached her final destination. They weren't bothering her yet. Three of them with matching farmers tan from fishing for days in Key West. They introduced themselves. Duval, frighteningly tall. Keri, wore tye-dye and a hat from the local theme park of a Jamaican flag with false dreads hanging out the side. Brad, very handsome in a David Duchovny kind of way, meeeow!

"Where you running from?" the tall one asked.

"Leaving Orlando, Florida! The Sunshine state! Dealt with hurricanes, earthquakes, floods, and just too much. Been there for three years, time to move on to a new way of life.", she replied.

"What do you do for a living?", asked Brad, he seemed to be the leader of the pack.

"Livin' in Orlando, man, that's wicked. Farout from the beach, but the people are cool, huh?", Keri asked.

"It's actually the total opposite. A good percentage is tourists and they just don't give care. Then there's the men who care about their looks more than I do, and that scares me. The wandering hippie generation. A by-product of living in the HAPPIEST PLACE ON EARTH… homosexuals. I don't know if their hitting on me or if they just want to know where I got my shoes. Don't take me the wrong way, I love'em! I almost want to be one. They're always having a better day than me. Orlando also has an enormous amount of college students, heck I was one of them. That alone is enough trouble. The entirety of central Florida is overwhelmed by people driving on the opposite sides of the road, using the excuse their 'tourists', young adults trying to take over the world with their energy drinks and power bars, and the random fucked-up families in-between. It's not really all that happy".

"Woaw, dude, that's heavy." said Kevin lighting another Parliament Menthol.

"Where are you guys on your way to? Adventure? Excitement?" asked Bri.

"Going to see my mom in Sedona, Arizona." replied Brad, who was looking desperately for the waitress.

"Oh…Ah! Waitress, may I have another drink, and whatever the guys want to drink." she insisted.

The guys all ordered a bourbon and they sat for hours bullshitting. They learned what her mission was and were mighty impressed of the attempts of the petite twenty-three year old. She said she was on her way to Seattle, she'd been there once, actually, but only for a few hours during a cruise. She was raised mostly on Long Island, New York but she'd been living in Florida since Hurricane Andrew struck it down. She went to high school in Palm Beach County, raised by the beach-side and a strip if the A1A highway that is so rugged but so beautiful it'd make your daddy cry. She loved it there, but didn't like to stay in one place too long. Briana went on about her three year stint in Orlando, where Mickey Mouse and Shrek rule the day. From Le Cordon Bleu Culinary Academy to University of Central Florida and graduated with a short few terms at Valencia College. She could sum it up by saying it was not the best years of her life and it was time to get out. Out of Orlando. Out of the state! The farthest city she could think of is now her agenda. Seattle.

It was about midnight and they were all tired. The guys mentioned about heading back to their seats for a nap before they arrive at noon. The agreed to meet for breakfast at nine thirty.

Briana folded the chair down in 23B into the makeshift bed. Set her mp3 player's alarm clock. Three different ones to be exact, and closed her eyes.

No one could really say why Bri was going where she was going. She didn't really have any kind of a plan it seemed. Like she just got up and decided one day, she was going to live in Seattle. She had already been roaming around the country living in San Francisco a while, Manhattan a few months until she couldn't afford it anymore, and all over Florida, living in it's glorious splendor. Briana actually loved Florida almost in an unhealthy way. She loved it's history, it's culture, and in many places, lack there of. She couldn't be away from the ocean, the beach and it's sand for all to long. She but just had to get the hell out of there. She didn't like the people, and wanted to see if she could find a place in America where they still cared. Hmmm, home of grunge music, rock climbers, lesbian rock, and many vegetarians… Seattle! Her life in Orlando wasn't enough. She couldn't find a good enough reason to stay, there's nothing holding her down. And there's nothing holding her back. Not that she'd ever really need ones. She took her strikes and now she's out.

This time she woke up not in drool but something smelly dripping off the ceiling. Gross. It was fifteen minutes until she was meeting the guys from last night for coffee and stale bagels. Four and a half hours until Washington D.C., then a six hour lay-over until the next train to Chicago.

"Hey Brad, Duval! How's it going? Sleep well?" yelled Bri coming up the stairs of the dining car.

Duval spoke. "Actually, yeah. We have no idea where he is. I think he tailed some ass, and actually succeeded." He winked at Bri.

"I thought you said you were going to Sedona? Wasn't there a train that runs through the south for you to take to be quicker?" she asked.

"We're actually making a long trip out of it. We're first going to see my dad in Chicago, we board the next train in DC to Chicago, and another seventeen hours!" Brad explained.

"That's nuts, The Capitol Line?"

"Yeah, why?" answered Duval.

"Yoooo, you never believe what kinda ass I just grabbed last night!" announced Keri walking up with a cowboy stride. "Know that German chick we met at the station? She now loves the Americana!! Whhhhaatt!!" He saw the look in Bri's face and quickly apologizing for not realizing she was there.

Duval smacked Keri upside the head as he sat down and told him, "Miss Briana over here is on the next train! And she has a bedroom."

Duval and Keri in high-fived and in unison: "Smoke time!!!"

"You guys smoke? Like ganja? Bong rips? Tokes? Spliffs? Why didn't we get to this last night? To my room before we get to Washington? Might as well explore the city baked!" They follow Bri back to 23B.

They all sat around in a circle in the tight four by seven room. Keri did some incantation to not get caught. Duval opened the windows as much as the three inch windows would go. Brad just sat and smiled telling Bri she didn't seem the type. She explained in one sentence, "I did go to UCF, you know."

They spent the next few hours laughing at nothing and falling to the ground almost in tears. They were telling each other life stories. Brad's story was of a girl breaking his heart, bad like. Then he slept with her mom and felt better about it. Keri told about his exploration and investigation of different kind of music events. Shrooms at Bonaroo. Acids at Ibiza. Explained the importance of the "special kind of fucked-up" for the special shows like 311 and Dave Matthews. Duval, well, he wasn't much of a talker, so before he even tried I told of my last adventure:

The men just didn't know what to say. They were speechless for a moment as the huge joint coming to it's end got pass around.

"Fuckin A, Bri, damn good one." said Keri burning his fingers on a roach trying to hit it.

"I think we're almost there, guys! Plans for the break between trains? asked Bri.

"Not really, just grab lunch and walk around on solid ground, it'll feel good. Care to join, Briana?" asked Brad

"Sure." She said with a smile.

They parted ways until the train stopped to gather belongings and freshen up. Keri couldn't wait, so he brushed his teeth in the hallways. After ten minutes on concrete they meet up, put their things in many small storage lockers and head downtown.

"People used to make records as in a record of an event. The event of people playing music in a room. Now everything is cross-marketing. It's about sunglasses and shoes or guns or drugs, you choose. We got it rehashed; we got it half-assed. We're digging up all the graves and we're spitting on the past."

Hmm…that quote was just on my mind.

I need to start grabbing, other wise I'll be even more lost. If that's possible. It's damn four in the morning and I just worked fifty-seven hours in five days. Phewwww, I'm tired.

Know that song, Landslide by Fleetwood Mac? It slapped me in he face this morning.

I'm the kind of person who likes to know where she's going. Have an agenda for the up and coming days/weeks. I need a game plan. Well, it's almost the start of a new season, and I don't even know who's pitching. For all I know I should just stand in the out field and fucking catch butterflies. I need stability. What happened to the Old World? One…Two…Three hundred years ago women didn't have to make a 'game-plan' for themselves. It was Number One: Get Married. Number Two: have kids. Three: slap around your husband until he treats you nicely…wait. I think I just made that last one up. Anyhow. What happened to FAMILY VALUES? The men of my generation no longer want to have families. They've lost the sense of kinship. It was a dependency, your family! It's just not like that anymore. I read it in books and see it in the TV shows about the mob. In the average household? No matter what income or class it's just not there. It just saddens me. I guess it sounds 'prude' or outdated, but I wish it was something people still thought about. Having a family. Wanting to come home to something you cared about instead of the room of a rent shared apartment. I guess my generation just isn't in to it anymore. Do have to move to a foreign place and go old country? Well, I don't really want to milk cows, but right now that's for some reason slightly more plausible.

Why am I thinking about it? I have no idea. Most other girls my age are worried about their hair or which dress to wear to which bar. I just don't know what to think about. My brain is moving ten times faster then my lips. I don't know what exactly is going on around me because most of it is bullshit and I made a mental note to not even listen to bullshit. Then only things I take in each day are daily sales reports and what the fuck do I want for lunch? If I'm not working I'm probably reading, when I run out books I'll paint something. When I have no canvas, lord knows what I find myself doing. Like right now, just typing. With no real reason or rhyme. Just typing. [I feel like Dori in Finding Nemo. "Just keep swimming…"]

I often write for purpose. I have a file full of short stories, may eventually come to something, but probably not. I just feel lost and few people I know can even carry on a good conversation. Even if it's a conversation about nothing, it's still something. Favorite kind of peanut butter, bartender or brand of coffee. The last place I had great conversation was on the road. The Minnesota Adventure. I have no idea the names of ANY of the people I met, but it was the most heartfelt conversations I had in months. I wish I could just keep traveling, but its hard to keep shit sane that way. But I , like always, just keep trying hard. I'll think about keeping my chin high while staring down at the black Converse non-slips.

I shouldn't have to think this hard, it's only Wednesday.

The audience quieted as Serge walked up to the podium. He tapped the microphone.

"Has anyone heard that Jerry Springer now has a place in Sarasota?"

A few people nodded.

"I am mentioning this because I'm still waiting for Tonya Harding to move down here and make it a clean sweep. I'm going through withdrawal because I haven't heard anything about her since she beat that guy in the head with a hub cab at the hoedown. And what about that poor guy? I don't think there's any better time to sit down for that little heart-to-heart with yourself. 'Good morning. This is your wake up call. It's from Darwin'. But that's just one persons tiny drama, meaningless except in the bigger picture, which is trying to isolate the exact moment we turned into Trash Nation, and nearest I can tell, it was the second after Nancy Kerrigan took a telescoping blackjack to the knee.

Now there was a cute little soap opera.

What an absolutely fascinating underwater view into the Kmart inflatable backyard American gene pool. I have a dirty little confession. I love it! We may have learned everything we needed to know about life in kindergarten. But you know what? We can learn everything we need to know about the incredibly rude, selfish, infantile country we've become by observing the human spokes revolving around the Tonya Harding sociocultural axis. The Greeks revealed in Homeric tragicomedies; the English lived out Shakespearean dramas. But we, America, are the cast of the Kerrigan farce.

Is it any wonder we've thrown manner, compassion and respect out the window?

We've become one big, self-absorbed nation holding up an ice skate, pointing at a broken lace and blubbering our eyes out. We don't know our neighbors anymore. We have no shame, no consideration, no sense of duty or sacrifice. Need more metaphors? We won't go the extra mile. Meet anyone halfway, and if, somehow, somewhere, anything at all goes wrong in our pathetic daily wanderings, if some random misfortune drops at our feet and splatters like a Taco Supreme, we don't commence to tidy up the floor and getting on with our lives. We start making a litigious radar sweep of the room, seeing if there's anyone in recrimination range, some entitlement cadet to whom we can construct a Bridge-over-the-River-Kwai blame-path of tortured logic and sheer, reality sculpting self-deception.

Maybe they handled a taco once, maybe even made tacos.

Maybe they could have warned you-yes, they knew all about that treachery viscous emulsion of grease and sour cream on wax paper. They deliberately chose not to say anything as they saw it slipping out of your hand in Peckinpah slow motion while you were trying to eat, talk on the phone, and log on to eBay at the same time. Well, here's a news flash for you. Believe it or not, the blacks and the gays and the Jews did not drop your taco. You dropped the fucking taco, my friend.

It doesn't make you a bad person.

It doesn't even mean it's your fault.

What it does mean is that this cosmic slapstick we call life has just elected you the schmuck who has to go get the mop. So go get the goddamn mop already! don't just stand there staring down, reliving the lunch-that-could-have-been and trying to figure out how affirmative action did this to you. That's just the way life is. It can be cruel, frequently wacky, but above all utterly, utterly random. Those twin imposters in the bell-fringed jester hats, Justice and Fairness-they aren't consultants of the natural order like entropy or the periodic table. They're completely alien notions to the way things happens out there in the human rain forest.

Justice and Fairness are things we're supposed to contribute back to the world for giving us the gift of life- not birthrights we should expect and demand every second of the day.

What do you say we drop the intellectual cowardice? There is no fate, and there is no safety net. I'm not saying God doesn't exist. I believe in God. But he's not a micromanager, so stop asking Him to drop the crisis in Rwanda and help you find your wallet. Life is a long, lonely journey down a day-in-day-out lard-trail of dropped tacos. Mop it up, not for yourself, but for the guy behind you who's too busy trying not to drop his tacos to make sure he doesn't slip and fall on your mistakes. Don't speed and weave in traffic; other people have babies in their cars. Don't litter. Don't begrudge the poor because they have a fucking food stamp. Don't be rude to overwhelmed minimum-wage sales clerks, especially teenagers- they have that job because they don't have a clue. You didn't either at that age. Be understanding with them. Share your clues. Remember that your sense of humor is inversely proportional to your intolerance.

Stop and think on Veteran's Day. And don't forget to vote.

That is, unless you send money to TV preachers, have more than a passing interest in alien abduction or recently purchased a fish on a wall plaque that sings 'Don't Worry, Be Happy'. In that case, the polls are a scary place! Under every ballot box is a trapdoor chute to an extraterrestrial escape pod filled with dental tools and squeaking, masturbating little green men form the Devil Star.

In conclusion, keep your chins up, grab your mops and get in the game. You don't have to make a pile of money or change society. Just clean up after yourselves without complaining. And, above all, please stop and appreciate the days when the tacos don't fall, and give heartfelt thanks to whomever you pray to…You've been a fine audience."

Serge stepped back from the microphone, and a loud cheer rose from the crowd. Mortarboards filled the air, students hugged each other, parents snapped a thousand Instamatics. Serge ran over to the dean and slapped him on the shoulder again. "Well, I'm outta here."

Tuesday July 3rd.

Awoke 6.a.m. to board Flight 843 from MCO to MSP. For those who don't know the travel lingo, that means Orlando to Minneapolis/St. Paul. I arrived at the airport on time, sans luggage. Grabbed my oversized purse and headed to the security check-point. I was smart enough to check-in online the night before and had already printed my boarding pass. I take off my shoes and belt, lay the bag flat through the X-ray machine. Walk through the metal detector and I clear, though they point to my bag and asks who it belongs to. I own up to it and they ask if they can search it. I, of course, comply. The officer pulls out a bottle of Fiji water, apple sauce in a 4-ounce cup, three lighters, and my nail clippers that were in the make-up bag at the bottom. He told me these were all potentially hazardous items, and he'd have to take them away. I asked him if I could have some of my water first, and told me I couldn't because what if there is a chance it isn't water. I delighted him with the fact I'd share the fifth of vodka with him after his shift, but he didn't take. I left my belongs with him and he tossed them four seconds later. Apple sauce? Dangerous? And jokes on him, because I had four lighters! Didn't find the last one, sucker.

On the plane! Up and away, and my ears pop. By the grace of God, the airline carries XM satellite radio, so until landing I rock out flipping stations between my two favorite, Lucy and Ethel (really, that's the radio station names. And if you know me well enough, you also know that's my pet name for my breasts). I have a four hour layover in Chicago-Midway. I had planned on spending this time drinking in the first pub I saw in the airport. Unfortunately, Chicago-Midway is a non-smoke airport, so I have to go out of security clearance to baggage claim and out the door for the chain smoking of half a pack of cigarettes. I sit outside awhile, delve in my book, and feeling the bright Chicago sunshine. The weather is nice, kind of humid though. I meet a nice fellow who, when I told him where I was going and why, he thought it was quite frivolous, but what did I care? He was just some shmuck from Chicago.

After about an hour or so outside, I get up, go back through security where they claim my last lighter, jack asses. I find a bar, O'Reily's Pub, have a seat in the corner, ordered the usual and killed some time reading. After a while, a group of guys in the corner, who were sitting there as long as I, came over to me, did the usual of asking my name and where I was going. They order my next drink and we bullshit about why we're in Chicago, and where we'd rather be. They were going to Niagara Falls to their cabin, myself St. Paul to see a performance of a lifetime. My lifetime, anyway, since I'm only twenty-two. After talking the table off, the O'Reily's gang parts their ways wishing each other a wonderful trip of nightly boozing and scoring. I board my second flight successfully, highly intoxicated, and brave up the 90 minute flight to MSP.

Oh, Baby. I'm here! Minneapolis/St. Paul. It's 2:50p.m. I'm able to check into my hotel at 3p.m., the exact time difference it's going to take to get me there. From the airport I hop the Light Train to the Mall of America. I know my hotel is just outside Macy's door, so I walk through the mall (dangerously) getting a glimpse of what I'll be doing tomorrow. I see the roller coasters, restaurants, and oh! An H&M. My lucky day. I managed not to buy anything and proceed to check in at the Days Inn. I was in my hotel room my 3:05p.m.. I dump my purse out on the bed. I grab the bag with my rolled up mini-dress, changed, adjusted my hair and I'm back at the Light Train by 3:30p.m..

First stop, downtown Minneapolis. Takes just about twenty minutes to get where I was going. I got off at whatever the last stop was and wandered around. I don't know where I was. What I was doing. Where I was going. But all I knew I was out of Florida, though the weather was the same, 85 and humid. I had three hours until the reason why was here in the first place. I get back on the train two exits closer to where I need to be. Saw a bar, and thought to myself, "Well, Gaby, you could be thirsty". Sat down, drank my lunch. Luckily, again, didn't pay. A couple from Wisconsin was here for their daughters wedding, just plain in a good mood, and covered my tab. I like this town. Ninety minutes left. Now three exits away, in downtown St. Paul. I saw a small deli, ordered a turkey on rye, no cheese, inhaled it and walked towards the Xcel Energy Center. A Lincoln drive by with four 40-ish year old men listening to "Don't Stand So Close To Me" by the Police. I smiled.

I approached on the Xcel Energy center about thirty minutes early. I walked around the perimeter, got my bearings. Saw taxi stands, which I'll need later. Bus stops, bars in the vicinity. Couple limos surrounding all four entrances. The VIP entrance has a long line. Why are they in a line? Not VIP? I wander the area until 7:20p.m. and finally enter. The opening band was actually Sting's son, Joe Sumner. The band is Fiction Plane. They were mildly enjoyable. I'd considered buying their album when I got my tour t-shirt. They ended their set, and by then I was continuing on my buzz. While smoking a men in attempt to hit on me offered by buy me a drink. I whole heartily excepted, that was three drinks down since the start of the show. I decided to nicely ditch the guy by saying I was going to buy merchandise. Which wasn't much of a lie, that's really what I was going to do. While standing in line, I had the luck of being exactly where Fiction Plane was going to sit to sign autographs. A man with velvet ropes pushed me into what was now the line, and I was first I suppose. I met the gentlemen of the band, Joe Sumner last. He looks just like his father. I would've shown him "American Hospitality" , if you know what I mean. (wink) Him, and then for dessert, his father. Ohh, drunken fantasies. Any how, I shook his hand and he signed my ticket. Told him he was gorgeous and he just smiled. Then went back in line, I wanted my damn tour t-shirt.

I threw my new "The Police 2007" tour t-shirt in my purse and went outside for some fresh air. I must've looked pretty smoking, or just the other females we just Minnesota didn't look like me. Is it that tattoos, the mini-dress, the tall boots? Whatever it was men were swarming me. I think I gained four points on the self esteem chart this adventure. Within smoke break number two I had a drink in hand, and a new gentlemen to talk to. After gabbing it up a moment we hear a commotion inside. They must be coming on stage! It's time! My hours of travel and exploring a new city were not in vain! First on stage is drummer Steward Copeland. He's just plain amazing. Runs to his drums with his sweat band holding up his poofy hair. The crowd goes nuts. Andy Summers emerging with guitar in hand, covering his 50-year-old-man beer belly. The audience is still screaming! Then…it's Gordon Sumner, himself! STING! Still amazes me that people take him seriously when his artist name is "Sting", but good for him. The whole audience is on their feet! THE POLICE TOGETHER AGAIN!! They started out with Message In A Bottle and everyone was singing along! Then Synchronicity II, Walking On The Moon and Voices In My Head. By then I had lost my gentlemen friend, and walked to the bar for a refill. Wow, paid for my first drink all day! I got back while rocking out to When the World is Running Down….and played all the favorites and ended with Can't Stand Losing You. When they left the stage there was NO WAY this crowd was going to walk away without another song. A few minutes go by and they bust back in stage to play Roxanne real hard! The whole auditorium filled with the voices of thousands of people! Left the stage again, and they still weren't leaving their seats! Three encores later they finally end with Next To You, and thousands of people leave happy. I did it! Something I thought would never happen! They hadn't toured since I've been BORN! And I just saw them live. It was amazing. After the concert, the glow in glory I saw down at the nearest bar and fetch some Cosmopolitans with an extra lemon. After a new drinks and talking to my fellow bar patrons I head home by cab at 1:45a.m.. I got to bed after a hot shower with a smile.

July 4^th

I awake at 10:30a.m.. That's just enough time to get ready and check out in time. By 11:15p.m. I'm checked out and heading to Mall Of America. With only a big purse, I'm well ready to shop this 4 story, 1000 store mall! I have to be at the airport by 3p.m. to be on my 4:30p.m. flight. Four hours? That's one floor for every hour. I prioritize myself and go straight to the amusement park! I rent a locker for a few hours and put my purse inside, and hold just my ID and my credit card. I spent twenty bucks on two roller coaters and the ferris wheel and find myself enough amused to go shopping. I take my time in stores I like and spend a small fortune. It's 2p.m….enough shopping! I need lunch. I head to Bubba Gumps and sit at the bar. I order a drink called On The Bayou and calamari appetizer. I sit awhile, trying to finish my book. I get distracted by a very attractive blonde boy, and I hold back the annoyed look and continued to smile. We chat a while, I offer to share my calamari. We ended up ordering another appetizer and four more drinks. By the time I had even looked at my watch it was 3:15p.m.! I had to bolt! Said goodbye to the nice blonde boy and ran to the Light Train. I was in luck when I got there, it at just arrived. I hopped on, 6 minutes later I was at the airport. I check in electronically at a podium and went through clearance where they took the new lighter I had just bought. Bastards.

I make it to Gate C7C three minutes before they closed! And man was I in luck. Though being in the back of the plane, I had the whole three seat row to myself. We took off, my ears popped for the 7^th time in two days. And right after my ginger ale and pretzels, I passed out all the way to Atlanta Airport . I had only an hour layover. That's fine with me! And for the first time on this trip, an airport with a smoking room! SCORE! I spend most of my hour talking to passerby's and airport employees. Five minute conversations with complete strangers are always my favorite. I board when they call my zone, seat 20E, in the middle of two very feminine looking French men. I smile and let them know I'm with them! They're hard to understand but we get along fancifully. They say they don't understand the no cigarette laws in the airports. They say they'll light one up right off the plane, even though I explain that's not customary here. They say they don't care. Why? Because they're French.

I land back in Orlando forty hours after I left. The best forty hours of my life. Beat that one, bitches.