The people-watching in Seattle has been amazing! My only concern is that my darling husband, who is far better at nicknaming and recalling these memorable folks, is not with me. I will do my best to try and paint you the picture of the freak show that is Port of Seattle: Sea-Tac Airport.
Before I can do any of that, I need to wrap up the chapter of the trip that focused on the orange hoodie-clad thirty-eight year old who is trying to "keep it real, man." He ended up being my seat partner, with the middle seat gapping us from being even closer. Trust me, I am not complaining about this. Anyway, as I mentioned before I slept almost the entire flight, as did he. The few times that the turbulence or fellow passengers woke my slumber, I looked around to make sure I was where I belonged and Clive was still there. I've given him that name because it seems old school enough to be classic, but new school enough to make him a douche. So the plane is landing, he's still out and even after better than half of the plane has exited their rows. He wakes with a start, a furrow of the brow and asks me,
"Does everyone get off the plane now?"
"Yea, I think we do."
Mind you I'm by the window and in order for me to leave, this fella has to get up, so I need to make this happen as smoothly and quickly as possible.
"Doesn't this go to California?"
Oh boy. I do recall that they mentioned something about going all the way to Dallas, or maybe Fort Worth, it's all hazy at this point. I know it was definitely a city in Texas, not California.
"I think it goes onto Texas."
A flash of clarity comes over his face. He's seen the light.
"You may be right."
And with that, he ascends from his seat, headphones and ridiculous man-purse around his shoulders, he attempts to get about four packages from assorted overhead bins. This would have been fine had he started this process when the five rows in front of us were getting themselves ready. However, Clive chose the exact moment that he should have been exiting the plane via the middle row to start getting out of his seat. At the exact same time, the elderly man who sat in the row perpendicular to us was getting out of his row, all bags in hand and ready to exit. Clivey simple bumps this old man back into his 14B seat. Told ya. Tell tale signs of total douchdom. By the time that I am stepping off of the plane, my darling unhip hippy is still trying to wrangle his luggage into order. I'm afraid he's still lost on the ramp, caught forever between "here" and "almost there."