Taking the “Dull” out of Dulles

Yesterday morning I was waiting at SFO for a flight to Hartford, CT, when I had a strange feeling I was going to run into my friend Jeremy. It was fleeting, and probably more wishful thinking than anything else, since I hadn’t seen him in a few months. I was probably only thinking of him since I was heading to Massachusetts, which happens to be where both of us grew up. “That’s silly,” I told myself, “Why would he be headed to Hartford when his family lives near Boston? And besides, he always takes US Airways red-eyes. He wouldn’t be in the United gate area, especially at this time of day.”

I quickly got distracted by something shiny and forgot about it. But later, I was roaming the hallways of Dulles, wondering how to kill a three-and-a-half-hour layover and fuming that the women’s restroom near my gate was out of order. (How does a whole room break? This doesn’t make sense.) I was also wondering what the chances are of running into my friend Wendy, who lives in Richmond (and who I happened to know was traveling that day), or maybe my grandparents, who live just outside of Washington, D.C.

I never did see any of them, but as I was stomping around angrily looking for a working bathroom, I was snapped out of my funk by someone calling my name. Oddly enough, it turned out to be Jeremy. He was also just passing through, and having anger issues of his own, having to do with a grossly delayed flight.

So we had a good old time amusing ourselves at the airport, gossiping about old co-workers and cursing United, for, I guess, not being able to control the weather better and not personally checking the plumbing at every airport they serve. It’s a small world.

Well, at least mine is.