Philla what?

The F terminal at Philadelphia airport is a lonely, somewhat barren place compared to the rest of the airport. It is the preverbal redheaded step child of the main airport. Separated from the other concourses, one needs to take a “tram”, which was fuller that a bus from Delhi to Calcutta. The floors here are bare tile, lighted industrially. Compared to the carpets and bars of the main concourses, the “F” gates (which I can only assume stands for “far away” or, since the building seems an after thought, it could stand for “Fuck, we forgot something)” resemble the dirt mall that resided in the city of concrete flamingos, Parma, Ohio.
For those of you who didn’t grow up around the Cleveland, the dirt mall was a place that (I’m guessing here) resembled a gypsy encampment in the style of the movies. I’m not talking about “Snatch” here, where there are strange looking men raise dogs, drink to much, and fight for caravans. But the type where the band moves in and sells a bunch of useless shit to the people dumb enough to buy it (before you get offended you should know that I’m speaking of myself here).
Speaking of Cleveland, this is the reason I’m stuck here in the city of liberty, home to my once beloved Philadelphia Phillies. According to e-mail, I was supposed to be here for a scant 40 minutes, before boarding yet another sleepless plane ride to Cleveland. My plane arrived here on time, but after being redirected to a gate which was occupied by the little carts that are involved in the various comings and goings that occur on the runways of the worlds airports. While we waited for these carts to get off their asses and start working we where told by our fearless, yet defensive captain that we must now wait for them to come and scrape the gate free of ice, which is apparently coating the area. This inconvenience of mother nature caused me, and pretty much the rest of my fellow passengers to miss my connecting flight to Cleveland. To me, the worst part of this is the fact that I had to stand inline and listen to the unlikely team of three frat kids and a die in the wool Portland Democrat (not to hate on my liberal friends in PDX, of which I am now one). I’m talking about the particular type of person who sees it as their god given right to bitch about everything . I understand that my current situation is no body’s fault really, unless of course we are to blame mother nature herself. But this super team of bitchiness was hell bend on getting an apology from somebody. Personally, I think that they needed to fall to their knees and take this up with god himself, but obviously they saw it differently.

Once I had worked my way through the line, with an amazingly small amount of bitching from myself. I consoled myself with the thought that I had escaped the bitchiness. Much to my chagrin\surprise, as I descended the hidden stairwell to the tram I heard the lovely sounds of my PDX traveling companion. She would explain to anyone who was pretending to listen, that people in Portland are nice and that the good people of Philadelphia are meanies. She was so forceful about this point that I’m sure anyone, or should I say everyone, who heard her, that I am now convinced that they believe that Portland is filled with winny ass complainers (give me some slack for that last phrase, I’m a bit tired).

Hmm...hopefully only a few more hours in Philly, I should go looking for a cheesesteak. Plus I really need to use the can.