Into the great wide open

So I step out of my domestic terminal in LAX, and after getting some confused looks from various airport staff (I asked how I could walk to the international terminal rather than shuttle, how novel), and all of a sudden there is a big ol’ commotion. I think, emergency! Apparently my days of living in LA are too far behind me, because this was really just business as usual: the paparazzi. Yep, about a dozen of them swarming some tiny, glossy-haired starlet in a flurry of flashbulbs.

I stomached a predictably mediocre and heinously over-priced dinner at the terminal. Just me and Gregory. Oh, Gregory, you rascal, you Peck. He is the strong and silent type. He is a good listener. He may be a bit gender confused as I had always thought of him as my girl backpack. But whatever. I reckon backpacks should be able to choose their own gender as much as the next inanimate object (or human). Anyway, I positioned Young Gregory in the chair across from me. He was good company. He did not hold my hand for 30 minutes straight like the couple next to us, thankfully. And he did not flirt with me while discussing child education under a boozy haze like the strangers on our other side. For which I was also grateful. Like I said, strong and silent.

The Aussies are getting restless here at the V Australia desk. Is it bad that I find it hard to take their anger seriously with that accent? Am I already throwing down and talking smack about Oz?

And now I bid you all a temporary adieu, as I ride this airplane over the sea.

Hobbits, prepare the mead.

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