No RE-lax at LAX

LAX, terminal, crowdsWhen I first enter the LAX (Los Angeles Airport) terminal I’m immediately bombarded with a mass of humanity. Where did everyone come from? Well, literally, from Hong Kong and Chicago, Honolulu and New York, Singapore and … but I digress.

Besides the fact that thousands of men, women, children and babies are strewn throughout the airport like fish trying to swim upstream, I note that no one looks (dare I say it without sounding extremely naïve?)…. friendly.

My man and I escape to hopefully more amiable rooms at the Admiral’s Club, where those with American Airline points (and a club membership) can get away from the general riff raff and re-lax in peace. Sure enough, the men and women here scowl silently. Their heads are lowered to their cell phones or I-Pads or laptops. I search for long minutes to find someone talking to someone else.

Wait – out of the 50 or so people sitting on leather chairs and couches and tall café stools, I do see half a dozen conversing. On their phones. To someone not in the same room as they.

Okay, perhaps I’m being too cynical. Somebody must be smiling. Somewhere.

My tired eyes (our flight was over 5 hours) scan the room and the bar, where a 10-year-old kid carries a glass of red wine to some adult not nearby. An attractive mid-20s  woman, wearing a tight red sweater, tighter black leggings, and stiletto-heeled black boots, seemingly talks to herself as she munches on pretzels. I presume she’s wearing a little earpiece in her diamond-studded ears. Many important-looking men carry worry-lines between their eyebrows like a badge of honor.

I quietly scoot two rooms away to the “Ladies Room.” A few nice-looking woman (Hollywood stars, perhaps? though I don’t recognize anyone) primp in front of the mirror. After washing my hands, I search for the paper towels. Oh, there they are, above the box labeled ‘Disposable Needles.’

WHAT?

I want to escape this Alice- in-Wonderland hole, frantically waving to my guy that’s it’s time for us to leave. His quizzical expression makes me laugh until I see the 10-year-old kid sipping from the red glass of wine.

I grab my spouse’s hand and catch a beautiful beam from the janitor, a tiny man with gleaming teeth, as he washes the glass exit doors.

There.

A Smile.

One person knows how to RE-LAX in LAX.

I’m flying out of there before I get stuck in the rabbit hole called LA.  LAX

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