You want to know one thing I love about flying? The airport. You may be thinking, what the hell are you talking about? Long lines, security checks that may as well be colonoscopy’s, not to mention layovers!? Sure, all that shit sucks but you know what doesn’t suck? Alcohol. Guess who has a shit ton of it? The airport. Your flight to Cleveland may be delayed 8 hours but I can guarantee you, your double Jack and Coke will always be on time. Ever heard of an airport running out of alcohol? Yeah, me either.
What I love most about the airport? No matter what time you arrive, depart or wait for that prolonged flight, there is always that poor soul, slouched at the bar drinking their sorrows away. Tell me one time you’ve walked into an airport and seen the bar empty? You can’t. It could be the f****ng apocalypse and I assure you, that bar stool isn’t empty. You want to know why? Because flying gives you a severe fever and the only remedy is alcohol and lots of it.
Nothing makes me more delighted than walking into an early 6 a.m. flight, being greeted by 2 middle-aged women drinking Gin and tonics talking about their divorce. It’s truly beautiful. Divorce not so much, but the art of drinking at the airport. The ticking clock that is time at the airport is a flat circle. There is no concept of time at this magical place, that is until you miss your flight. Imagine a bar opening at 5 am? It doesn’t exist unless that is, you’re flying the red-eye to Houston. Say I crack open a cold one around 8 am. Will I get some sneers and judgmental looks? You bet your ass I am. Yet, here I am ordering a double crown on the rocks at Tampa allegiant and the world hasn’t skipped a beat. Judge us if you will but Martha, the recently divorecet and I are slugging down martinis at the crack of dawn living our best life. Sure, I may have a $98 tab on 5 drinks but that’s besides the point. Drinking at the air port is an experience, nay a lifestyle that everyone should indulge in. Riddle me this: Have you ever enjoyed sitting in a 4-hour layover eating stale pretzels talking to your mother in law? I’ll wait and while I do, I enjoy another dirty martini. Truth is, I love layovers, I thrive in them. You know why? You know damn well why. Dirty old hag Martha and I are sipping on straight Gin making bad decisions.Next time you’re 30,000 feet in the sky , get hopped up, you won’t regret it but your flight attendant just might.