I arrived in New York on Thursday after a 5 a.m. wake-up call, a 2 hour layover in sleepy Baltimore and a 1-hour final leg next to a couple from Dallas who fought snappily every five minutes. I've looked forward to this trip for a while - a reunion of ex-co-workers who made my brief stop at my ex-employer survivable.
My first stop off the plane into fashionable, high-class New York City? The women's restroom at Terminal B. You know, those strategically placed restrooms that snag all the passengers who realized they had to pee right when the seatbelt light came on or that discovered bangs that had strayed out of place during moments of turbulence. I'll place myself in both categories.
I stood on line with a gaggle of women in various stages of bladder urgency and disarray - all of whom picked at their flyaways in the sliver of the mirror, while catching side glances at their neighbors in line.
One woman - with stick straight black hair and dark, outlined eyes - huffed to the back of the line and sighed deeply, dramatically. "Always a line. Hummmph." She gave us all a meaningful glance and pursed her lips for effect. New Yorker.
The woman in front of her - with curly hair and wide apple cheeks - giggled. "But I don't mind waiting. Otherwise, I always get stuck in traffic and have to go then. So this is better!!" She smiled at all her listeners. The first woman looked away with a pained expression. I could tell what she was thinking.
New York vs. the rest of the world.
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