That’s what it is. A mind game. I’m playing with myself. Until late very late tomorrow when I fly home. Do you read fine print? I don’t. I didn’t. That favorable round trip rate came with holes I’m filling now. A nineteen hour layover in the Dublin airport. I knew it. And was ready for the task. Until I deplaned. And realized just how many unconnected and small and unrelated moments this consumes in real time. I can do this. I am doing this. But unlike L.L. Bean or their ilk, this airport actually closes at night. Didn’t know that. I’m spacing the back and forth walks to the easy chair. And to the bar. Trying to own some real estate at the power cord charging station. Having one small plate after another. And trying to will away the calories. Because jeez I’m still so goddamn vain even as the room darkens. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It is. But the flight was so cheap. Did I save a dollar just to spend more in heartbeats? Now look at me. Like the uncle nobody wanted for Thanksgiving so drove him to the dog track and left him there. The guy with a once-handsome tweed coat that’s now a bit tattered. The sweat stained chinos. Yesterday’s Daily Racing Form crumbled in one of the pockets. The glamour no one sees except this guy when he looks into a mirror at the WC some 100 meters down the corridor. By the end of the week I’ll be home. I hope it’s warm. And that I can change my clothes. Because now I’m in middle ground. On an island somewhere between last week’s oh so wonderful Milano haute engagement and the Deep River quiet life I’m trying to return to.
.
