Written in an airport in 2009. Part one here.

Immersed in my thoughts, I attempt a sip of my still-scorching coffee. I look through the waiting area’s window out on the tarmac in time to see a young, semi-Goth girl strolling towards the terminal. She’s wearing a big shirt, leggings, and black pointy canvas sneakers and is carrying a clear plastic bag. Odd sight down there, among the trucks and the be-headphoned, orange vest-wearing workers.

Most people dress like slobs when they travel. I subscribe to the old school, get a little dressed up. It’s like armor, especially since I’m nervous about Seattle and all the NEW that’s going to happen. The new people, the new lessons, the new.

But at this moment, I am caught in limbo.

From my limited vantage point, I scan the waiting people for celebrities, a popular LAX pastime. Instead, a priest in full priesty regalia, and smelling a strong, powdery scent (God?) sits next to me. A dude in civvies, with full pompadour and large, jeweled cross hanging from his neck, murmurs to the father in Spanish and wanders away.

I try to catch the eye of the Father to give a smile and nod (be nice to what you fear!) but he stares ahead, stonefaced. Oh, you Catholics!

As if sent by central casting, another compatriot of the Padre’s wanders into view. He is wearing a old-fashioned news cap, suit, and is fabulously handsome. Dapper. That’s the perfect word. He chews gum and paces in front of the window, clearly impatient for or about something.

I quietly lust after the airport technicians zooming by on their little carts. I wish my town had more flavor. I wish I spoke Spanish.

A lady asks if the seat next to me is taken. No, I say. “I want to save it for my old man,” she says. I like that. I plan to use that next time I have an old man of my own. IF I do. Oh, please don’t go there, don’t dwell on that.

Two hip 20-somethings sit in front of me. Their ice-cold demeanor dissolves as time moves, slowly. At one point, I look over and he is gently karate-chopping her knee, trying to cause a reflexive action. They giggle, before settling down to sudden parallel nothingness with their iPhones.

Genuine thumb-twiddling going on next to me. Don’t often see that.