The One With The Crystal, Moonlight, and Tearful Goodbye

The neighborhood where I spent my final 4 days

The final day in the desert. I rubbed my eyes from sleep in the quiet adobe house belonging to Conejo and Klaus. I couldn’t believe it was time to move on – but I know if I didn’t, I’d regret not seeing the rest of the places I’d set out to originally. I let my mind float back to the evening before – Conejo letting me in to the house after my dinner in town, going over to their landlady’s house for hot wine and soup, proceeding to spend the evening laughing at Conejo’s incredible miming skills while Ely (his landlady) and I pretended to be actresses in this little skit with him, listened to Ely’s friends play guitar, tambourine, and sing, dancing salsa until Klaus came home around midnight. Sigh. The house had been filled with so much joy, I was almost sad to go to bed.

Sigh again. Happy that Klaus had the day off from work, and my bus didn’t leave San Pedro until 8 that night, I made the decision to enjoy every single last moment (it was not lost on me that I’d been having a lot of ‘last moments’ lately, what with leaving City Year and Milwaukee just 2-3 weeks prior).

Klaus and I enjoyed a final coffee and breakfast together (I think you can still call it breakfast if it’s after noon but it’s your first meal of the day, right?), and then I set off at his behest to the San Pedro bus station to buy my boleto for the trip to Santiago (long story short, there were very few direct buses from the desert to Valparaiso, so I had to connect in Santiago). Naturally, the office of the bus company I needed was closed until 4 PM, so I biked into town, bought a 6-pack of Escudo, and biked back to the house. It occurred to me how out of shape I was – and how thankful I was I’d rented a bike for my last few days in MKE – I had to get off and walk the bike the last block. It’s the altitude, I told myself to assuage my conscience.

I met Klaus’ friend Gonzalo back at the house, and watched the rest of the documentary Garbage Man with him while Klaus did laundry (my laundry included, thank goodness – I was starting to stink all over) and called friends to come over for a barbeque later that evening. My last few hours consisted of another trip to the bus station, ATM, and corner store, playing soccer as the sun went down with Nico, Ely’s son, Conejo, Klaus, and Gonzalo, eating 4-5 different meat mini-sandwiches, and enjoying beer and laughs with everyone above (except for Nico, he’s only 13). 7:30 rolled around faster than I wanted (but as fast as I knew it would), and I had to say my final goodbyes to everyone. I thanked Ely for her hospitality, Conejo for everything (this kid was seriously doing amazing things and is only 19), Gonzalo for chatting with me, and Klaus “drove” me to the bus station on his bike, ending our time together just as it began. I knew the tears would come before they did.

Goodbyes are a terrible thing – they signal the end, they feel so final. Even as you assure the other person this isn’t the end, this isn’t final, we will see each other again, there’s a part of you that always wonders, but what if it is? He wiped my tears away with one hand, and with the other, handed me a little crystal, 2/3 the size of my pinky. He instructed me to use it to cleanse myself of bad energy, and to set it in the moonlight to cleanse the crystal. I thanked him over and over again for everything, pulled the back of my hand across my eyes one more time, hefted my backpack onto my shoulders, and boarded the bus.

The One With The Extra Week In The Driest Desert In The World

"...and I, I took the road less traveled by..."

Yep – I decided to make a by-the-seat-of-my-pants decision, and in lieu of my stay in Santiago, stay for an extra 4 days in San Pedro de Atacama. After I ventured up into the Andes for the first time to the El Geyser del Tatio, spent some time chatting with the second group of travelers I’ve had the pleasure of encountering on this continent (a Paolino, Brit, porteno, Germans, etc.), I realized I was going to need waaaay more time than I anticipated here.

Tatio was incredible – the 4 AM wake-up was not – I was almost angry at these 2 Aussies in  our tour group for saying that, well, they’d seen the geyser at Yellowstone, so this was nothing *insert Aussie scoff here*. Okay, it was as cold as I’ve been since that skating trip to China-but-almost-Siberia in February of 2010, but it’s so hard to care when you’re surrounded by nature that fabulous and breathtaking. We stopped off for lunch and souvenirs at a little mountain town, I enjoyed a hot cup of Nescafe (I drank plenty of this during my tenure in City Year so I actually like the taste) and a freshly made empanada with queso de cabra. I was trying to be very purposeful about my breathing – being that far up in elevation with asthma ain’t cute, let me tell you – when all of a sudden I couldn’t swallow my bite of empanada. I tried not to panic, but the voice in my head had definitely lost it, saying things like, “MARY did you know when you’re up in elevation swallowing becomes more difficult as well?! Oh, you can’t breathe?! SHIT we can’t breathe!”, and for about 5 seconds I thought it was all over. (It wasn’t, I’m fine, and sitting in a café in town now writing this.) We got back to San Pedro around 1:30, I took a nap and drank my body weight in water to treat it to the oxygen it deserved, and when I woke up a few hours later, it was because of what sounded like someone trying to round up a group of feral cats. Meandering outside, I came to find it was Catalina’s neighbor from the finca across the way on his daily llama drive. LLAMAS! I watched like a woman saying goodbye to her long distance lover as he drives away in a taxi – don’t worry I resisted the urge to run after them – until I couldn’t see them anymore, and for the rest of the daylight hours, enjoyed coffee and produce with Seinfeld in Cata’s backyard.

The next few days were filled with a more traditional vacation feel – lounging around, reading “Wild”, eating in a different café every night for dinner, trying Pisco Sours made with different herbs, and hanging around with Klaus and his friends. Oh, that was the other thing – I didn’t feel quite as bad about not making it to Santiago because Klaus offered me a free place to stay in San Pedro. It’s hard to say no to beautiful Chilean green-eyed men, I learned.

Las Piedras Rojas, red volcanic rocks that get their shapes from ice wedging. B-e-a-utiful!

Plus, it gave me time to take another excursion to the mountains to marvel at the wonders of Mother Nature. This trip was kind of all-encompassing – desayuno, Las Piedras Rojas, Lagunas Altiplanicas (llaman Miniques y Miscanti), almuerzo, y Salar del Carmen (2^nd largest salt flat in the world, next to Bolivia’s Salar de Uyuni). I was exhausted when I got home around 6 PM (we’d left at sunrise, around 7:45 AM), but ho-ly crap was it a beautiful day. Being the only native English-speaker on the tour was a whole other experience – even though the tour guide offered to translate everything from Spanish for me and for me alone (cue Penelope Cruz from Vicky Cristina Barcelona asking Cristina, “You know no Spanish?...You studied Chinese? Why? You think that sounds pretty?”), it was both a great opportunity for me to try to understand more Spanish (I did better than I thought) and the kick in the pants I needed to convince myself to take a few Spanish language classes once I move to Massachusetts. At each stop, after the guide’s explanation, I’d wander off across the incredible landscape by myself, taking it all in, having what I imagine feels like a religious experience, imagining myself the only woman in this entire place. It’s easy to see how one can find almost immediate and lasting peace in places like these.

“When I had no roof, I made

Audacity my roof.” 

- Robert Pinsky                      

The One Where I Tried To Write A Blog Post In Spanish

Mi casa para 3 dias! - San Pedro de Atacama

--

So, I tried practicing my Spanish by journaling in the language instead of English. Only publishing the English translation here, because it's far less embarrassing.

Mi vista de la cafe Iko-Iko a la plaza

 --

I put all my things away in my bedroom at mi nueva casita, and walked with Marlen, my hostess's friend, to the pueblo, a.k.a. the center of the town. When my bus pulled in, I was hungry and exhausted and was extremely hot because of the adrenaline and bus's heating system. Marlen suggested we walk to the pueblo after she made me coffee and I had a shower, and I nearly leapt on her I was so thankful for the suggestion. She pointed out the best coffee place in town - had I been that desperate for coffee back at the house? - and we parted ways after a Ciao! and kiss on the cheek. 

Now, I'm sitting at the cafe Iko-Iko, looking onto the plaza, eating a wonderful sandwich with queso de cabra y champinones, and a cappuccino. I try not to wolf it down like the American animal I am. 

Already, I can see that San Pedro de Atacama has a ton of stray dogs and a ton of tourists. I'm sitting next to a table full of them (tourists, not dogs)! I hope I make some friends here.

--

After I realize the tourists next to me aren't going to ask me to hang out and be friends forever, I walk myself down Peatonal Caracoles to book a tour to see El Geyser del Tatio the next morning, then back to the plaza to repose in the afternoon sun and read more Wild by Cheryl Strayed.

--

I'm interrupted by a biker-man who plops himself down a few paces from me to fix his bike wheel. My mind instantly flits to Peter back in MKE, and I hope he's doing okay. I'm brought back to reality by this Chilean biker-man with a man-bun, who's asking me in Spanish if I have a lighter. I must have given the same I-have-no-F'ing-idea-what-you-just-said-to-me-but-I'm-going-to-try-to-be-polite-and-smile look to him, and he asked me in English again. I say, "No, sorry," and he walks around to a few others in the vicinity to ask them. I turn my attention back to my book, but then a few a minutes later, he's asking me the first of what I will later call the 'typical tourist trifecta' of questions [De donde eres? Cuanto tiempo va a viajar? Desde donde viajes?/A donde vas despues?]. I tell him I'm from New York. The next question is not Cuanto tiempo va a viajar? or Desde donde viajes?/A donde vas despues?, though, but it's, "What are you doing right now? Are you busy?"

Completely thrown off, and a little intrigued that biker-man-bun-dude just asked me this, I pause for a second and size him up. He's rugged, attractive in that I'm-Latin-but-have-green-eyes-and-light-hair type of way, and seemed harmless. I respond, "I'm just reading. I'm not really that busy....", and we decide to go buy some beer to drink at his house now that he's done with work. I have no idea what I'm getting myself into, but the feeling is exhilarating. I decide to trust my instincts and go with it.

We end up at his house about 20 minutes later, the whole walk we're chatting about our backgrounds, our university degrees, our passions for the environment, etc. He opens the door to his house, and immediately apologizes for how messy it is. I say it's fine, my place back in MKE looked similar, and perch on a wooden bench. He flops on his bed, adjacent to said bench, and proceeds to show me some photos of the landscape around San Pedro, around Concepcion (where he grew up), etc., which led me to wonder if phone-photo-sharing being a new big part of Latin American culture my guidebook had failed to tell me about.

It's 10 PM by the time I tell him I need to go home, I have an early tour to the geysers in the morning. Thankfully, he lends me a jacket assuming I'm ill-prepared for the mountain cold at 6 AM (he's right, I am), and drives me home on his bike (never having ridden two to a bike before, let alone on unpaved, rocky desert roads, this is awesome and frightening at the same time) - but not before pointing out some major constellations I've never seen in my life - and we make arrangements to meet up the next day.

Dazed, confused, and happy about how I'd spent my first day in San Pedro de Atacama, I lay out my clothes for the next day, turn on my heated blanket and Seinfeld, and fall asleep.

The One With The 30-Hour Bus Ride & Argentinian Jiu-Jitsu Fighters

View out of my bus from Arica-San Pedro de Atacama; I've never been so happy to see next to nothing out of my window!

--

Be mindful, y'all - this is a long installment. What can I say - spending 48 hours in transit means a lot of things happen to you.

--

It was a fleeting 24 hours in Lima, Peru. I arrived about 40 minutes later than expected - being slightly confused about where to put my luggage through the scanner and having to explain to the Immigration officer why I was only staying in Lima for 24 hours contributed to that - and was met with an arrivals gate more intense than the scene at Heathrow at the beginning/ending of Love Actually. My hosts had said to look for a sign with my name on it - now, I had put in fresh contacts back at the Ft. Lauderdale airport, and I couldn't find my name anywhere. Very aware I looked like a tourist (did my bewildered, darting eyes, or huge backpacks give it away?), I tried to play it cool. I wandered around in a horseshoe 4-5 times, waved the same shady "taxi driver" off the same amount of times, and finally found Beto, the driver sent my by AirBnB hosts. Phew!

After apologizing (apparently he'd been waiting there the whole time...lies!), we stepped out into the warm Lima air. He gave me very stern instructions to WAIT HERE, DON'T MOVE while he brought the car around, and after a pleasant car ride where he too admonished me for only spending 24-hours in Lima (his words: Chile?! You go to CHILE next?! What is there in Chile?! They don't have any ancient things to look at!...my thoughts: think of a good lie to tell anyone I meet before I leave why I'm only here for 24 hours to avoid any more unpleasantness), but also gave me a nice driving tour of the city, and showed me to the most glorious room in a wonderful apartment. I thanked him, collapsed onto the double bed which felt seriously incredible after the airport chairs, floors, and plane seats, plugged in my laptop, flipped on Seinfeld, and fell fast asleep.

--

I got up to explore Lima a bit before Beto came to take me to the bus station - I needed some Nuevos Soles to buy snacks for my long journey [thanks, study abroad experience!], so I dressed in my most local-looking outfit and headed to the ATM, which was adjacent to the gas station where I loaded up on water (why don't we sell giant bottles of water in the US?), Inka-Cola (it's vacation, it doesn't count...right?), and a can of Kryzpos (Latin America's answer to Pringles). Even though it's winter, I felt the adjustment my body had made to Milwaukee winters over the past 4 years, and shed layers down to my t-shirt. On my way back to the apartment, I passed a few local bodegas, saw a sign for fresh papaya juice, and couldn't resist. 

"Tienes jugo?" I asked the woman behind the counter. I need to learn how to ask for things more politely in Spanish, I think to myself. She nods, I pay, and plop myself down at the only table in the place, only to be met later with a pitcher of fresh papaya juice. HELLS YES. I sip my f'ing awesome juice and crack open Cheryl Strayed's Wild on my phone.

--

2 hours later - 2 PM

"Desculpe, pero tienes un impresora? Hay mi boleto, pero.....no esta...."

I trail off as the Cruz del Sur counter agent nods, whisks away with my passport, and prints me my bus ticket so I can actually get on my bus. Thankful she understood my poor Spanish, I happily bounce toward the queue to board. Instant despair ensues - I have to check my huge backpack! But surely the agent must know the meticulousness with which I packed and fit everything - including my other day pack - into this bag! I sigh at myself for not knowing, and try not to make a scene in the middle of the bus terminal, unpacking and repacking the essentials into my small daypack. My grey t-shirt now a shade darker with sweat, I check my bag, nod at the gate agent, and flop into what I didn't know was the wrong seat.

--

2 hours later, in the right seat - 4 PM

I'd just finished watching - no, reading the subtitles of - Imitation Game (the headphone jack on my seat didn't work, but I was too embarrassed to let my seatmate know that after he so nicely helped me figure everything else out, for instance how to recline my seat, so I just sat there in silence, pretending to be hearing everything in the movie), and cracked open my Inka Cola. Yep, it's like 4 times sweeter than Coke, y'all. And a dark Mountain Dew color. But delicious, and necessary, nonetheless.

Night starts to fall, and the steward comes around with dinner - dinner! - and beverages. I settle in for a good sleep. Let me tell you, these seats are what I imagine business class on planes was like when only the upper class flew. So. Nice. I flick on the first episode of the Serial podcast, and close my eyes, letting Sarah Koenig's voice lull me to sleep.

--

5 hours later - 9 PM

We pull in to Nazca, Peru, and my kind seatmate gets off. I thank him for everything, and we wish each other well. My new seatmate is first a younger-looking guy, but then he switches with an older man - they know each other, along with the attractive woman 2 rows ahead, who turns out to be the girlfriend of my original seatmate - who asks me in Spanish if the bus gave out headphones. I respond only with a puzzled expression, say, What?, instead of Como? or Que? like I'd hoped to, and the older guy says, "Ah, English," and translates for me. After he settles in, I fall back asleep, never to know if he got his headphones or not.

--

10 hours later - 7 AM

We're shepherded off the bus for the first time, to put our baggage through an x-ray machine. I see a sign telling us they're checking for child, arms, and drug trafficking, as well as fresh produce. I wander around in kind of a stupor for 5 mins, stretching my knotted-up body, wondering if I can pet the stray dogs all around (I don't), and get back on the bus.

My new seatmate and I fall into a wonderful conversation for the remainder of the ride to Tacna (the border town) - I find out he and his 2 friends are Argentinian ("from Salta, in the north, not Buenos Aires," he's quick to clarify), though he's ethnically Lebanese, and runs a sheesheh resto-bar in Salta. He shows me photos of his home, neighborhood, different hookah pipes, and then photos and videos from the PanAmerican Jiu-Jitsu competition that they're returning from (this was some seriously cool stuff). I show him photos of my home, my dog, my friends at a restaurant in NYC. We chat about their visit to the Nasca lines, we wonder how people in the desert get water, we take bets on how long it will be until we're off this f'ing bus (it was a nice bus but damn, I'd lost feeling in both buttcheeks like hours ago). We agree to share a colectivo over the border with his friends, which I'm very thankful for because while I knew this was my next step, I had no idea how I was going to finagle that ride.

--

6 hours later - 1 PM

We de-bus in Tacna!!!!! I've never been so happy to get off a piece of transportation before (except for that time I thought there was a hijacker on my plane coming home from Brussels in 2010). My new Argentinian friends and I make our way through the terminal, and with the help of an oficer de seguridad, find a legit colectivo to take us across the border. We cram into his car after getting all our documents in order, and we're off! Lorena & Franco plug in their headphones, so I follow suit, again to my friend Sarah Koenig and the Serial story.

We stand in line to exit Peru, then drive a little further through no-man's-land to the Chilean border control, and stand in another line. I can't help but think how much friendlier all these border guards are than the ones we have in the US. A smile and a "Buenas dias!" goes a long way, my US border guard friends. Just sayin'. 

After the 4 of us process through, it's back into the colectivo to motor on to the Arica bus station. Knowing mis nuevos amigos y yo have to part ways soon, but not too soon (my bus wasn't until 10 PM and theirs turned out not to be until 72 hours later), we purchase bus tickets and then share a cab to the center of town to a McDonald's. FREE WIFI! I cave, and order my usual from when I used to frequent McDonald's on a weekly basis after skating practice 13 years ago - a plain cheeseburger & medium french fries. I swap the Sprite for a coffee this time, though. 

--

9 hours later - 10 PM

I'm on board my next bus that will take me to San Pedro de Atacama. I've said goodbye to my Argentinian friends after they walked with me 30 mins from McDonalds back to the bus station (I seriously can't believe how lucky I was to have met them - I'm forever thankful), loaded up again on snacks and water, enjoyed a cappuccino at the adjacent cafe to where I purchased my snacks, and chatted IN SPANISH with a lovely woman who just happened to sit down near me. Her name was also Maria, and I referred to her as my Peruvian auntie in my mind.

This time, I have my own seat and the lower level of the bus to myself except for one elderly fellow in front of me and the slightly-creepy steward who kept bringing blankets and pillows and asking me if I was okay. I soon realized I was sitting directly above the bus heater, started sweating, and peeled off down to the base layer. I considered taking off even my socks, but all I needed to do was unzip my botas and get a whiff of that situation - never mind. I put Serial on to distract myself, and it worked. Next thing I know I'm freezing my nubs off, Sarah Koenig is leaps and bounds ahead of where I remember her leaving off, and we're being shepherded off the bus again, in the middle of the night.

--

Around 3 AM, somewhere in northern Chile

Now, because my Spanish is shaky at best, I didn't actually know we were being shepherded off the bus for another x-ray checkpoint until it was almost too late. In the 3 days I'd been on the continent, I'd just been taking my cues from those around me, and the old dude in front of me wasn't moving. Eventually, creepy-steward-guy comes down to tell us to get the F off the bus - okay he's not that mean - so I jump up, knock my phone on the floor which rips the earphones out of my ears, and throw on as many layers as I can while stumbling off the bus. I toss my bag on the conveyor belt, and shiver alongside the rest of my fellow travellers for the next 7 minutes or so, and at first signal, rush back into the comfort of my seat, which now is stone-cold. I pull out the rest of my layers I didn't have time to put on before, including my SmartWool socks (good purchase, self) and will myself to be warm. I pull the curtains closed on the window to try and block out the cold. I wonder if I'm rather ill-prepared for this trip, and if I'm not as tough as surviving MKE winters has made me think I am. With my trusty Serial back in my ears, I drift off to a cold, uncomfortable slumber again, this time cross-legged in attempt to conserve as much body heat as possible.

--

Around 8 AM, in the Atacama Desert (according to Google maps)

I wake up to sunlight struggling through the pulled-tight curtains. I notice that a seat a row back on the other side of the aisle is strewn with a blanket and pillow, and is reclined, though there's no one sitting in it. I wonder if the creepy-steward watched me sleep before he slept...then readjust my thoughts away from that and toward the natural beauty outside my window. For the next two hours, I pass the time listening to Serial while trying to maintain my 98.6 deg. F body temperature - the heat is now full-blast again, and the sun is coming directly into my window, but the window itself is still stone-cold. It's a pleasant journey, though I can definitely feel the altitude here (2,407 meters, or 7,900 ft). I take a pump of my inhaler [thanks, Miami Skating] - that's better - and watch the desert landscape rush by while Sarah Koenig tells me more about Adnan Syed's twisted case.

--

10 AM - San Pedro de Atacama!!!!!!!!

I'm so happy, I almost fall off the bus. I realize I've lost my checked bag tag to receive my backpack, but creepy-steward just winks at me and passes me my bag. Whew.

I make my way to the bathroom, then to the bench on the street just outside the little station to sit and wait for my taxi to my next AirBnB. I'm late arriving here, too, so I worry I've missed my taxi, but my hostess told me to just sit and wait until he showed up, so sit and wait I did. An hour passes, the desert sun now high and Mary now sweating, deciding that if the taxi didn't come in the next 10 minutes to wander aimlessly to find the main plaza. I didn't know what I'd do once I got there since her house was allegedly a 15-minute walk outside of town, but maybe it'd be a start. Maybe....OH! Here's my taxi. I hop in, apologize for being late, and 10 minutes later arrive at the most adorable adobe house I've ever seen. 

I am finally home, I think to myself. I did it.

The One With The Night In The Airport

Waiting in line for coffee at O'Hare before the first flight of my journey!

--

I hop out of my Coach USA bus at O'hare's bus terminal [and refuse the urge to alter the lyrics to "Party in the USA"]. I throw my teal backpack over my right shoulder - get thrown off a little by its heft - and march to Terminal 3. 

"I'm so glad I read the O'Hare reviews on www.sleepinginairports.com," I think to myself. There's a rumor that they put out cots for travellers at Terminal K, which HEY, is where my flight is leaving from early the next morning.

...Of course, one needs a ticket to get through TSA and to actually get to Terminal K. Knowing it can't end well, I try my luck at the Spirit Airlines counter, where of course the ticket agent tells me it's too early to check-in for my flight. I realize I'm going to have to snooze right here in the middle of the airport, surrounded by empty check-in kiosks, the lingering TSA people, and some questionable folks who seem to have no luggage nor purpose. But who am I to judge? I look just as weird.

Happy I loaded seasons 5 & 6 of Seinfeld onto my trusty little MacBook Air, I nestle in to a little area behind some abandoned wheelchairs, and fire up the 1st episode.

--sometime around 2 AM--

I open my eyes, lights in the airport still on, with no one much around. OH - except for that dude sitting directly to my left...hey dude, did you know there's a whole airport for you? Why did you have to choose the seat right next to me? 

I get up and head to the bathroom, brush my teeth, floss (I didn't just spend the past 8 months making endless visits to the dentist, HELLO), and change into some more comfortable clothes. I settle back in to another row of comfortable-only-because-it's-not-the-floor airport chairs, and doze off.

--sometime around 3:30 AM--

My earphone must've fallen out as I shifted in my sleep, and - HOLY SHIT - I'm surrounded by a huge group of people who look way too energetic for 4 AM [I did City Year for 4 years, I'm allowed to say that], and also a little like they're ready for a Caribbean cruise. I think, "Why are you being so loud," screaming at them in my mind, and decide the floor is the only place someone won't bother me. I move a few paces down, lay down my red fleece jacket for some cushion, and curl up between a pillar, the glass divider, and another row of seats, and doze off again - this time, I snooze solidly until my alarm sounds.

--5:30 AM--

It's time to check-in for my flight!!!!!!!!!

My excitement subsides, as it naturally does when I travel, as soon as I find myself behind some straight-up bozos in the TSA line. Now, I'm a fairly modest person, but I think I'm a damn efficient traveler - especially when it comes to going through the TSA security process. I have it down to a science:

1. Take off all outer layers, drape over arm

2. Remove laptop, tuck under right arm, and bag of toiletries, hold with teeth

3. Remove shoes

3a. Wait forever while the bozo(s) in front of me take forever to follow the aforementioned steps

3b. Oh, wait some more - they forgot to take off their watch, belt, etc.

4. With my free left hand, grab 2 grey bins, plop my backpack, jacket, and toiletry bag in one, and my laptop in the other

5. Sigh heavily (it's annoying to others, I know, but I just can't help it) because the bozo in front of me has placed 3 bins on the table, empty, and is slowly removing his/her shoes.

6. Rush around said bozo because a huge space opened up in front of them and they're not moving.

7. Race through the body scanner, hands in a perfect diamond [thanks again, City Year] above my head, grab my things, briefly wish every airport had a Recombobulation Area like Mitchell Airport in MKE, throw everything back on, and whisk away to my gate.

Now, off to Ft. Lauderdale for my connecting flight!