Port to Port

Originally intending to say “broadcasting live from Hartsfield-such-and-such Airport in Atlanta” and to compliment the establishment on their long overdue addition of wifi coverage, this entry’s publication will be delayed until arrival at Charles DeGaul in Paris, an international bastion of the truly free internet. Yes, for a mere 9.95 USD I could log in join the “Boingo” system and log on to publish, though I will certainly abstain, citing the ridiculous name among other faults.

An airport, the Atlanta airport: a veritable rift in the time/space continuum. Here you can arrive on Thursday, board a steel tube, hibernate, and reanimate in a foreign time and place, all for a nominal fee/temporary abandonment of personal rights. “Are your papers in order?” “Are they hanging around your neck?” “Could you hang them around your neck please” “And give me all your lighters…..all of them…..here’s 20 books of matches”

“Which way to the smoking coffin?”

And then there’s Air Fraunce. You know they (I) have, in the past, among friends, and in various academic papers, accused the French of being nihilists. While this may still be true, at least in their theoretical linguistic endeavors, they do, I now know, believe in a few things. Hot stewardesses: fuck equal rights in the tube, is it so much to ask for a pretty face to serve me drinks? Which brings me to their next strongest belief: Boos.

“Oui, red wine please……..two actually”

“Merci”

“And a glass of scotch to round it off, neat, merci”