Bar wall with photos of sport history from a dive in Reno.

Airport bar

Smoke stings the eyes almost as soon as I i swing the door open. Wading through the energetic chatter – you’ve got to love airports for this – I make my way to the bar. An area of glass eyed contemplation. Or, the opposite. Sweet, sweet, glass eyed non-contemplation.

I order 2 beers, from a less than charismatic bartender, they cost well above what you’d expect from an establishment where drinking at 9 am is not unusual.

The crowd, however, is far from unpleasant. Unconventional sure, but by no means “off”. The man to my right is chatting in the casual drawl of my mother tongue. (Thank and my) Goodness, it’ll be a long long time before I hear that again.

The man on my left is engrossed in his phone. As am I right now, I suppose. He’s kind enough to lend me a cigarette,. With minimal schmoozing – I might add. This could be a crowd I get used to. A far cry from my usual ravers of the deep dark dance floor. But also a far-cry less reserved, even when compared to that already minimally reserved control.

Other than being requested to double pay by a less than stellar crew. The airport bar is not to be skimmed over but rather to be viewed as a legitimate source of wonder and confusion. Both of which I may add are energy increasing emotions.

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