As I looked out from the rear seat of the cab on the way to O'hare the fall colors were at their peak. When we drove through the forest preserve which abutted the road on each side both the driver and I were dazzled by the bright yellows and oranges and russet reds of the trees the blazing crimson fire bushes at their base. Nature shamelessly flaunted its autumn beauty.
I am enroute to Guadalajara. It is my third visit to the historic city, the second largest in Mexico. I had turned 65 recently. I wanted to celebrate this milestone birthday. Guadalajara is somewhat familiar to me, will give me a nice fair weather break before the onslaught of a Midwest winter, and is, by U.S. standards, extremely affordable
The security line winds around the stretchy black stantions resembling, as airport security lines do, a slithering snake composed of humanity. I hear crying children, I hope they are not on my flight. I see morbidly obese people pass by, I pray they are not seated next to me.
They tell you to get to the airport three hours before an international flight. Sometimes I feel that this advise is the result of a back room deal between the airport concessions and the airline industry.
As I cleared security a sense of freedom and a slight euphoria came over me. Perhaps the same primal feeling a caged animal or bird feels once it is released.
Three sailors in Cracker Jack uniforms passed by. Tiny birds, trapped in the terminal, hoped across the floor, orthodox Jews faced the of wall of windows of the terminal, which looks out over the airfield, saying their prayers.
I wait, trying to time my airport meal so that I am not famished by the time I reach my destination. As I wandered through the terminal I discovered that some of the restrooms are designated as severe weather areas. I was oddly comforted by the thought that if a tornado came through I would still have a place to pee.
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