The sun is setting over the Philadelphia skyline and I am in the biggest airport I have ever seen. As stressful and tiring as it was getting from terminal F to terminal A (though, admittedly, the stress was all in my head as I had well over an hour to get to my gate), at least I had a nice view along the way. PHL has mini art exhibits sprinkled throughout the entire airport. My inner art history fan girl squealed as I hurried along with my over-packed bags.
I am now settled in a corner at a food court area. Across the way, a couple of dancers are practicing. They seem to be doing the same thing over and over, but then again I don’t know very much about dancing. A group of flight attendants are sitting a few tables down from me. It’s fascinating to listen to them speak when they’re not being listened to by a plane full of passengers. Spoiler alert: they know more words than “nearest exit,” their hands do more than that two-fingered wave, and, shocking as it is, they even curse.
Anyway, I was expecting a snack on my flight from Richmond to Philly. Nothing big, maybe a bag of chips or cookies—heck, I’d have settled for a pack of Nabs. But I guess an hour and a half isn’t long enough of a flight to constitute a feeding, so I left the plane hungry. After settling in at my gate (and passing a multitude of sugar-filled fat factories), I decided to behave and bought food from a small sandwich station. I purchased a turkey sandwich, an orange, and a bottle of water from a less-than-excited-about-her-life woman. I let her attitude slide, though, because she forgot to charge me for my orange. Still an overpriced meal.
After uploading this post, my last venture will be to purchase a snack of my choosing (haven’t decided yet)—my last American comfort before my flight to Madrid.