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Love Letter to Houston (finale!): Eating Beavers, liquid lunching, packing, flying, and the idiots at the airport

Sorry, I forgot to post this in a timely manner. My bad!

Beavers. I could have eaten there every day. We went there for lunch, and I had a super-boozy cocktail (soooo good) and an orgasmic, nutty veggie burger. I quite enjoyed getting sloshed at noon.

The day for me was kind of bizarre. I knew I had to leave, so that made everything feel disconnected, like I was mentally breaking up with the city. I wrote some more (drunk writing!) at the Collective and went back upstairs to triple check I hadn’t left anything unpacked.

Snacktimehighfive was nonplussed about my departure, but I’m sure he misses murdering my shoes.

After braving Houston highway traffic (fucking ridiculous), we get to the airport with time to spare. I bid Geoff farewell and entered the airport gauntlet once more.

This time I got scanned by one of those pervy photo booths! But before that, why do airports have different security requirements? At Houston, they practically had me take everything off my body that wasn’t clothing.

So, the scanning machine. Surprisingly underwhelming. I had to stand there with my hands over my head, legs spread, and the machine took all of two seconds to scan me. I couldn’t help wondering if they thought I was hot under all my clothing. Do they have a contest for hottest scanned person? I’d like to think it was me that day.

I sat in the Houston airport for my flight, and the flight coordinator (or whatever they’re called) announced the flight was running behind, so they had to board everyone in under 15 minutes to be on time.

One would think everyone would be attentive to this. That they’d make every effort to be ready and courteous. I don’t know why I always give people the benefit of the doubt. They don’t deserve it.

The flight coordinator (aka the coolest guy ever) announced he’d be calling business class first about five times. When the time came everyone got up and got in my fucking way. He turned several people away because they were fucking morons. I don’t know how he did it, but he got everyone on the plane in under 15 minutes, and the plane left for ATL on schedule. I love you, flight coordinator, wherever you are (Houston, I’m guessing).

So, I only had a 40 minute layover in Atlanta. I had to find my connecting flight fast. The girl at the terminal checked my ticket and told me “Gate 22.” So, I found the gate and sat my ass down—what’s this? Why does this gate say it’s going to San Francisco? Mind you I have about 15 minutes before my flight leaves. I ask the sad-looking flight coordinator where the flight to Pittsburgh was, and she said “Oh, that had a gate change. It’s at gate 29.”

I became a blur I moved so fast. I collected my carry-on and probably knocked down several small children on my way to the gate (which wasn’t that far away, but still). I found the gate with about ten minutes to spare. Fuck you, Atlanta airport.

That’s the last of my story. I got back to PA safe and sound, which didn’t seem as hot by comparison.

What can I say about Houston that I haven’t said already? It’s hot (in more ways than one!), has a ton of culture, and sexy hipsters. Would I ever consider moving there? Probably not. I enjoy having my seasons, as much as I bitch about winter.( I know, it's not much of a conclusion, but what else can I say?)

Farewell, Houston, till we meet again!


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