Day 2
"I don't understand this. Positive. Connective. Beeg boy! U.S. Open. The best!! Aaaah. I don't understand!"
The person responsible for the above is sitting across from me in San Francisco airport's international terminal. He is Chinese, looks in his early thirties, with that combination part/bouffant haircut that is so inexplicably often favored by my people.
Every now and then a Chinese exclamation escapes him: "Gwai jao yi sun", Chinese for "Doctor who yells weird shit," has made more than one appearance. It's not impossible; he's wearing scrub bottoms and is leafing through what could be medical papers.
After about half an hour of this, he has apparently exhausted himself. He lets out a huge hitching sigh and collapses back into his chair. Head back, eyes closed, he punctuates his emotional departure with a sputtering fart, twisting first one cheek then the other off the chair to facilitate release. His feet twitch from side to side in their white trainers, like he's dreaming of a faraway foxtrot.
Yup... I'm on my way.