I never have trouble finding a subletter because someone in LA is always in the middle of a divorce. This is the third wayward dude I’ve had living in my apartment.
When I travel, I like to assimilate quickly so I follow the South American tradition of: Stand in line ’til nothing happens.
I sat across from the tensest couple in the world on the plane. They were wearing travel clothes. You know those clothes that look like a cut up parachute sewn back together? The husband was anxious. He kept opening and closing the overhead bins looking for the lost Gatorade lid. I don’t know why it needed a lid. The bottle was empty. Everyone needs closure.
There’s a croc store in the Panama airport.
The worst decision I made 18 hours ago was this bra.
I can’t find any coconut water in this flesh market of an airport.
I’ve eaten food bars and overcooked fish.
I ate fish on the plane. I’m a risk taker.
Planes are just bad restaurants.
I had time to kill so I wandered around the Lima airport in someone else’s shoes. I’m wearing my friend Karen’s.
The 12 year old at this gate is drinking coffee.
Last night, someone said I looked like Cindy Williams, like I’d be good for a Laverne and Shirley reboot.
Why does everyone think Matthew Perry is so brilliant?
I sat next to a consultant from Encinitas on the plane. He kept referring to me and him as “us.” You know, from the “us and them.”
The first thing I smelled in Lima was Subway. Disappointed!
I know I’m in the airport because Eat, Pray, Love is in the “English Literature” section of the bookstore.
No one looks the same in South America. Everyone’s brown face is different.
But all the backpackers look equally proud of themselves.
I was in the boarding pass line too long so I asked for someone’s help who didn’t speak much English and he was so annoyed that he waved me through the line with a bag that’s two pounds too heavy and has way too many liquids in it. See how I used someone’s lack of skill to get what I needed?
Congress should try that.