Twenty Minutes

“North Carolina’s not so bad!” I think, changing planes in Charlotte on my way to see Harold. “It’s sunny here, and southern politeness is charming. Maybe I should just have a better attitude! It’s probably going to be fine!” I enjoy hearing Southern manners for about ten seconds, before wishing that anyone else in the airport actually had a plane to catch, and could walk at normal speed. Or at least keep to the right for moseying along.

I find myself totally incomprehensible to a cashier, until I sigh and make myself say “Yea-uh. Oooone. Sweeeeet. Taaaaaaay. Yea-uh.”  I’m trying not to be the miserable New Yorker, but I’m kicking myself for using cash as I stand captive while the cashier struggles to make change. I try not to wonder whether she is baffled by the subtraction…

Twenty minutes later, I’ve walked to the other side of the airport, and remembered how much I like being in New York. I wish that didn’t come with the re-realization of how much I hate North Carolina.

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  1. Pingback: Down The Coast In Seventeen Hours | Simpson's Paradox

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