I sit next to some two thirty-somethings bullshitting away about their start-ups and skiing in Colorado. Sort of weirdly fascinating, this view into their lives. If there's one thing Americans can do, it's talk a good talk. I'm more the retiring type. Scared of appearing to show off, which is a bit of a no-no in the British cultural tradition I come from.
But their conversation is oddly fascinating. I can’t help peering through this half-open window into their lives. Perhaps because there are no TVs to drag my eyes away. In that weird magnetic way.
The menu is shorter and the print larger than at Dove’s. Even my dodgy old eyeballs can clock the classic eggs and bacon combination. Sausage is an alternative option to bacon. But what loony would take American sausage over bacon? Not someone I’d want to share a taxi with.
I preferred the Dove's breakfast, to be honest. Better bacon - this lot is too smoky - and the grits, amazingly, I preferred to the hash browns this time out. Odd, as I usually quite like hash browns. And grits are a bit weird.
I did my packing before brekkie. Being much more careful to pad all the bottles than last time. When I was a cavalier. Overconfident. Lesson learned. Though I'm still not going to risk ruining any books. Money down the drain. Dolores has very strong opinions about that sort of thing. Strong opinions and lightly veiled threats to my person.
To the airport, I'll be indulging in a taxi. Theoretically, it's a piece of piss from here to the airport. There's a Blue Line stop just outside the window where I'm typing this. It goes straight to the airport. The pissing around the other end - getting from metro station to shuttle to the international terminal is a total nightmare. I'm going to risk the wrath of Dolores by getting a Joe.
Having spent fuck all so far, I hope I can indulge in this one extravagance.
My driver is a chatty bloke from Morocco. We discuss religious politics. Something I usually try to avoid with stranger. Then switch to football. A much safer topic. Football is great. An easy way to talk to men the world over. Even Americans now.
The ride only costs $40. Not that bad. Avoiding all that fucking walking and queueing was $35 well spent.
I breeze through checkin and security. Airside, I look for some scran. Something Asiany, preferably. Bao, that'll do.
There's also time for a quick farewell whiskey. As drinking my own booze would get me into a shitload of shit, should anyone notice, I need to find a bar. There isn't a huge choice. I find one with a few stools and guide my arse onto the end one.
I get chatting with my two neighbours. A truck driver from LA and a local bloke. The truck driver sings the praises of Salt Lake City. "It's a great place to party." He claims. Not sure I'm convinced. “You should go there. You’re white, you’re Hispanic,” he says, pointing at the moustachioed man to my right,” I’m black. In a club the black women would be all over you two.”
I think the chances of me being mobbed by women of any description are even lower than me ever being in a club in Salt Lake City. I don’t want to break the mood, and hold my tongue.
Airport bar conversations are great. That’s why I always sit at the bar. It means you’re close to others, without invading their private table space. People open up more readily. Maybe it’s being stressed and searching for distraction. Or simply knowing you’re even less likely to ever bump into each other again than I am to be mobbed by women in a Salt Lake City club.
The flight is packed. And the twat in front has tilted their seat back. I'm struggling to look at the screen of my laptop. I hate pillocks who recline the minute the plane takes off.
I don't bother with the meal. It was pretty disgusting on the way out. I only ate it out of desperation. That's why I had the bao earlier. To avoid desperate eating.
I don't watch Taskmaster for that long. I want to get a few hours kip. Otherwise tomorrow will be hell. I drift off without too much trouble.
I awake in time for a strange breakfast. The only reasonable bit, orange juice, I spill all over my kecks. Great. I arrive back in the country with a suspicious wet patch on my groin. What’s the symbolism there?
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