Thursday, December 19, 2013

Brussels Airport, 3:21 AM EST

Being in overseas airports always makes me uncomfortable. The only language I speak is English, and I feel like a presumptuous dolt whenever I attempt to communicate with anyone.

So I guess in that mode it feels exactly like home. And I am uncomfortable at home.

But I'm unaccustomed to not picking up any English in the ambient babble, and so in order to "normalize" the environment while I'm getting acclimated to it, I talk to myself. Unceasingly. Airport security staffers spot me zigzagging through the concourse and carrying on vehement arguments with my shoes about duty-free cigarettes, and then they come up and ask wo gehen sie and I'm like :D ..... and they're like hey guy where are you going and I'm like :D .....

No, I didn't sleep at all on the flight. Thanks for asking. The sun is coming up and my circadian rhythm has brought its ballgown to the squaredance.

What is it about airports that make you so HORNY, he muttered to himself. I just want to turn to the next French-speaking lady I see and ask her if she's interested in any of the virulent New World germs that have been incubating all night in my virile New World body.


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