Leaving Winter

I walked into the airport just last night, walked right past all the electronic kiosks, and related paraphernalia. I waited in line just a short time then stepped up to a human,  the supervisor human on duty who asked me if I had a boarding pass, or baggage claim tickets.
 No I said all I have is a reservation, and handed him my passport…He asked me where I was going. This I knew. Someplace warm I replied. He gave me a look and I could tell he wanted a more specific destination, so I replied Portland and then San Francisco.

San Francisco

He pressed some keys on his computer, but I could tell he would rather be using the tablet all the other gate agents had. I got my boarding pass and bags checked, and didn’t notice that my boarding pass was not as usually marked TSA PRECHECK, and I would have to be subject to the entire theater of TSA.

The Anchorage TSA crew was leaving no stone unturned this night.

 

A Complete Search In Progress

I was scanned and inspected. My computer bag subject to comprehensive explosive residue testing. My trousers from Pro Bass with the long narrow zippered pocket, a pocket that is no larger than to contain perhaps an ink pen was subject to a pat down. Had I had these very trousers last year and used that pocket to carry the pen that wrote in Spanish I might not have lost that pen…..

After clearing security it was only a short wait to board the sky carriage for the all night run to Portland.

The carriage was a new 737-900 and actually had padding in the seats, an electrical outlet for each rider, and this night wasn’t even full.

Turbulence shook our sturdy Boeing most of the way south, but I slept, and was oblivious to the screams of unseasoned terrified passengers.

It was still dark  when I walked down the jet way in Portland. I like the Portland airport, it is easier to make a connection there than in Seattle, and this morning layover was just over an hour. Just enough time to find a cup of coffee.

The line had already formed at the Starbucks when I got into it, and soon I was no longer at the end of the line, but I  had determined that this line was too long to wait for what Starbucks calls coffee. I mentioned this to the fellow standing behind me as I left the line and he said there was a better local coffee shop just down the terminal. We both headed that way…

Coffee People looked like the real deal but the counter girl had never heard of a lungo, or the Italian language.

Coffee People Really?

A brief bit of instruction yielded a very  dry Americano.

Maybe I will have better luck at Peets in the city…..