Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn’t just scrap this blog in favor of something new. When I started writing, erinire.blogspot.com was some kind of dreamjournal / venting spot for all of life’s common frustrations, whereas now it seems that I have more to say about my travels to and from the wondrous plains of North Dakota.
Take, for example, breakfast.
OMG, you mean you don’t know what that is? It’s a CRAB PRETZEL, of course, sold for $7.99 plus tax in terminal A of Logan airport, and it’s by far the worst use of per diem I’ve ever gagged on. Eating the crab pretzel is like trying to hork down a yeasty piece of dead ocean, prettily coated though it is with cheap parmesan. And, FYI, an iced redeye is probably the poorest beverage one could quaff as an antidote.
So that was 10am.
Here’s the second leg of our flight, photographed via iPhone by one Sir Olesak Kimmer, in full panoramic splendor. Just prior to boarding, I’d inhaled a grilled chicken club from A&W at the MSP airport, and in this picture I am seriously contemplating the wholehearted use of an airsickness bag.
And finally, waiting for Pusser and Kimmer outside our Bismarck hotel, crouched on the curb enjoying a Camel Light, just look what pulled up in front of me.
And out poured an entire hockey team of indeterminate age. I promptly moved my NY Times Crossword Puzzle operation to the peaceful confines of the crew van.
This hotel is overrun with youth. The whole place is like DVD extras from Friday Night Lights. Half-open doors, the rank stench of athletes… it’s a world I don’t generally inhabit.
And oh, I wish I’d taken a picture of the hotel bar. We were presented with a “free drink” card upon check-in, so, after dinner, Pusser, Kimmer, and I strolled in on a mission of redemption. To say that we walked into that freak bar in Star Wars sounds like hyperbole but is actually nearly perfectly true. 8pm, a sliver of evening light worms in through the sole window, reams of pull-tab lotto litter the floor. Ten, maybe twenty humans huddle at tables throughout the smoky abyss as we three pull up barside like lambs to the slaughter.
“It’s ladies’ night” the teenage bartender tells me, with a wink. “You sure you want to use that drink ticket?”