Sunday, August 14, 2011
Letters From Terminal 3
I have had four bottles of Summit Natural Drinking Water (that I suspect is not natural at all).
I have played so many games of solitaire that I've forgotten what year I'm in.
I'm sitting next to a booth of either Cambodian Christian Evangelicals or drug runners that switch tables every time one of them wants to "talk numbers".
I have exactly one pen, one deck of Bicycle playing cards, one novel on a fake Alaskan Zion and 8,000 pages of homework to occupy the remaining three hours of my fourteen-hour detention in the Ninoy Aquino airport. The Fashion Rack is alternately blasting inappropriate club music and mind-numbing Nickelback singles at old Filipina women shuffling flowered luggage through the 4th floor departures mall.
Cambodian guy has run off to the bathroom for the third time in an hour, intensifying drug mule suspicions. Then again, his mustache and hairline may be sufficient evidence of a vengeful God.
Jury is still out.
Strongly contemplating alcohol as a coping mechanism.
Two hours, fifty-two minutes.