When in Rome...

My father gave me a lot of advice in the car on the way to RDU, but I was distracted by a combination of nervousness and a sense of literary déjà vu that was not helped by the fact that we had both walked out of a (bad) production of Hamlet around the time Polonius was also giving his son a lot of semi-rambling advice. I tried not to carry the allusion any farther, but I half-expected Dib Paul-onius’ to say something to the effect of “Neither a borrower nor a lender be,” and I was sure that the whole affair might end in tears if he did. Luckily, he didn’t.

My spirits improved when we arrived at the gate and my baggage was handled by a man who looked like Ricky Gervais in Extras. The entire check-in process was extremely painless; I didn’t even get the chance to give any TSA agents the evil eye for searching me. I did get some stares, but it was probably because of what I was wearing. (A bright red t-shirt with The Flash on it, black jeans, Roos, and a black sport coat.)
I had a minor attack of nerves as I walked by the Popeye’s Chicken, but this had more to do with an ill-advised movie rental choice from last night (Super-Size Me) than any real feeling of terror. I managed to resist buying a Michael Scott talking keychain and distracted myself by taking note of a man sleeping in his suit. It was a very nice suit (“good form”) but he was sleeping on the ground (“bad form.”) Therefore, we must conclude that it was simply “form.”
I’m a firm believer in the “expect the worst” doctrine, of people and situations alike. If it comes, you’re prepared; if it doesn’t, you’re satisfied. So far so good.

A domestic layover is the worst buzzkill of all time for international travelers. I stepped off the plane into the exotic land of, um, Philly. The moving walkway separated me from Gate B24, a 1:05 flight to O’Hare. (Probably for the best.)
Philly’s international airport provided me with new and exciting challenges, like what do I eat? A quick glance at the food court map provided me with five choices – a bistro/wine bar, “Au Bon Pain,” McDonald’s, “Famous Famiglia”, and “Asian Chao.” The bistro and wine bar seemed too pricey. McDonald’s filled my innards with a nameless dread. There was no way in hell I would pay money to eat faux-Italian cuisine at this point in my life. Finally, I had promised my mother (after a particularly evil stomachache) that I would never again eat cheap Asian cuisine. (Except for Nicky’s. Nicky’s, as I’ve often said, doesn’t count.) The only choice was “Au Bon Pain,” which is French for “A Good Pain.” Reasoning that if I had to be in pain, it might as well be the good kind of pain, I got a sammich from there.

Five or six of us met up in the Philly airport. Common complaints were the number of books. I was relieved to hear that no one had done summer reading of any kind.
You guys should have seen my expression when I told an old Italian woman who couldn’t speak any English to go ahead and take my seat so she could sit with her Italian companion. Multiculturalism rocks.