This time, the last half of the plane's middle seats are empty. My nefarious plan to have no immediate neighbor has worked for three flights in a row.
Something is surely bad wrong.
Flying to Nashville where we'll connect with a flight to Raleigh, assuming that 45 minute connection time works out.
And now the pilot says we're getting in early. We'll see how that works out. (It often does on Southwest.)
So we settle in at 36,000 feet with the usual tomato juice, no ice. My molars are close enough to demanding crowns without adding the stress of cracking ice.
Here's where the $20 for the Early Bird check-in paid off big time. The business center in that peculiar Holiday Inn closed with the chickens, and that was the only place available to check-in online.
That left me checking-in at the airport about an hour ahead of takeoff, which normally would put me taking about what the bear grabbed at. Instead, I have A21and A22.
Come to think of it, about the only pluses at that Holiday Inn in Independence was the shuttle staff who were willing to drive me about anywhere and the chef in the restaurant.
The shuttle drivers probably live off tips, which is sad, and I doubt that chef stays at that venue very long. He is far too talented to be holding court in a Holiday Inn.
SMOG! Someone has farted on this plane, and the flatulent miscreant lacks the common decency to sniff it up before the rest of us gag and die over it.
-- text tapped from a virtual keyboard.