The Elusive Search for Alcohol at Miami International
2010 February 18
12.15pm, Monday. 7-8 minutes early. We’ve finally landed in Miami International, an airport I’d graced once before at age 18, attempting to fly from a tragically ending Miss Teen USA pageant to my Tampa senior prom.
Flying middle seat in a 17-pound white faux-Swarovski prom dress? Next to a vomiting baby? Not advisable.
I’m headed back to LA after an astonishing nine days with my family. Holidays are officially over, and I’m rendezvousing with Hot Significant Other at LAX. Five hours of Pricelining, Travelocity-ing, and Kayaking later — I was able to not only schedule our flights to arrive within ten minutes of each other, but craftily convinced a Delta agent (oh, you morons) to waive the Random Last Minute Fee and utilize my I-Hate-Delta-Anyway 42,000 miles to cover my significant other’s overpriced ticket from New York. Saved a cool 190 reticketing + taxes + actual person phonecall with that one.
Silly Delta.
Landed in Miami International, which is essentially an idiot fest of massively overweight families dragging even more massively overweight offspring. Half of these Fat Child Things carried some kind of food item that would inspire even more obesity. I ogled the post-Christmas ridiculousness. Our world has really come to this, hasn’t it? Yes, Ashley, yes it has.
Deboarding, I tugged my delightfully happy (purple) Liz Claiborne carry-on behind me, swishing my hair (I’d actually washed it pre-flight), and pausing to call Dad about a marketing idea. I glared as another Fat Offspring Product rolled his 2-ton bag over my freshly polished boot.
I needed a drink.
Stashing my iPhone away, I began trekking down the D gates, eyes narrowed and searching for anything resemblant of a bar/pub/shitty restaurant-with-full-bar — anything. Au Bon Pain… no… Harry’s Country BBQ… hell no… CocoBay… yyy– no alcohol, damn it… Random Generic-Looking Martini Bar Randomly Next to Gate D37! Perfect.
Increasing my speed (being wary of the slick undersole of my new boots, I’d tripped three times already — contemplated fake lawsuit, deferred), I eyeballed and concentrated on the only available hightop table, situated conveniently at the end of the bar area and away from all of the annoying tourists connecting to their annoying Midwestern connections. Faster, I willed my gray knee-highs, faster faster faster… almost theeeere… BASTARD!
A (literal) monster of a man lumbered over to the Stool of Refuge, somehow rolling his mass over one side of the lone seat and sitting. It was like watching the blob consume a building.
I squealed to a halt, eyes flashing. I could even tell that my ridiculously happy new carry-on was pissed. And it’s freakin’ inanimate.
Two more children — semi-liquid food of some sort smeared barbarically across their faces — skidded by me, screaming.
Need. Liquor.
Looking helplessly around for another seat, even one at the bar, there was absolutely nothing to be had. Similar angry looking traveling regulars (we should really form a clan) stood at the outskirts of the Martini bar, waiting like alcohol deprived lions.
I gave it about eight seconds before turning on my heel, making a (surpassingly graceful) pirouette on the slick terminal floor, and marching back toward gate D40.
“At least I washed my hair this morning,” I grumbled under my breath. There’s nothing worse than being in an airport, needing a drink, and feeling like a heaping pile of unattractive crap on top of it all. I suddenly remembered the sudden blemish on my forehead that had appeared venomously overnight, and felt even more sour. I wanted to shove all the ridiculous sweat-pant-wearing youngsters and steal their Uggs.
Okay, that’s a little angry. But anyway.
“NOW. BOARDIIIING… First Clazz!”
I’d continue ranting about the Morons Within, but they’re calling us to board the next death bird. Till a politically incorrect next time.
– Ashley Avis
AshleyFlies.com – A Blog of Toils, Travel, and Vehement Hate of DELTA.
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