Tazo Chai Tea lethargy

I’m stuck at the Newark Airport on a layover that was previously 4 hours long, and has been extended by an extra hour and a half because of flight delays. I was mooching off of the wireless from Continental’s Presidents’ Club, but someone must have figured out that they were broadcasting internet to the whole terminal and stopped it. Now I’m forced to finish my Tazo Chai tea at Starbucks that I bought in hopes that I could sit here writing in my blog while sipping tea, instead of walking around like a trucker with two huge bags in my new loud, black leather boots. Ouch.

Right now I don’t feel like I’m leaving the country at all. If anything, I feel like I’m going back to Yale. So far, I’ve been reminded of Yale by:

1. Being at the Newark airport. I feel like I should be sprinting down the concourse trying to claim my bags and catch the 3:05 Amtrak to New Haven.
2. Seeing large numbers of Jewish people. There aren’t many back in Hudson, Ohio.
3. Feeling exhausted and sleep-deprived.

Last time I was at an airport, I ended up in conversation with a man that was a chef at the airport bistro. First he annoyed me by explaining to me exactly how to go through airport security, as if I had never done it before, but then since we were walking in the same direction he struck up a less condescending line of conversation. It went something like,

Man: Where are you headed?
Me: Hawaii.
Man: California? I’m hoping to move out west sometime. Open up a restaurant.
Me: Oh? What kind of food?
Man: A little bit of everything. I want it to be an international restaurant. Are you Chinese?
Me: ... Yes.
Man: I want to go to China sometime. See how they cook over there.
Me: That’d be great.
Man: Then I want to go over to Europe, maybe France, see how they make things over there too. How old are you, 20?
Me: Yeah, just about.
Man: It’s been many years since I was 20. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.
Me: My name is Sue. What’s your name?
Man: I’m Melvin. Pleased to meet you.
Me: Pleased to meet you Melvin.

He proceeded to tell me about the type of food I could get at his Bistro, and what other food I could get at every other restaurant in the terminal, before we parted ways.

I’m done with my tea now; it’s time to truck myself back over to Terminal B. Click, click, click.

This blog is dedicated to Melvin, who seemed like a nice man.