DFW

So, here I am. After over a year of patient (read: slow descent into madness) waiting, I'm finally here at gate D14, staring out a que-modern window at the refueling Dutch KLM airplane that will be carrying me over the Atlantic Ocean to the land of bread, wine, and funny accents.

The time is 2:20.

Around me is a truly unique environment. The international terminal at DFW airport was obviously meant as some kind of gesture to international investors that Dallas is in fact not a vast metropolis of thieving drunks (in reality, we're thieving bastards). All the stops have been pulled to put Dallas's best foot forward, leaving no doubt that modern architecture is about as exciting as a box of paper. It's like the entire terminal were designed by George Jetson.

The time is 2:50.

Flat-screen televisions arranged along the concourse are tuned into a newscast detailing Chris Brown's impromptu Mixed Martial Arts match with his girlfriend, moving walkways wisk businessmen along the next 45 feet of their journey, and the restaraunts are doing what they do best: serving coffee for 20 dollars a pop. The DFW airport is a city in and of itself, a testament to just how easy it is for the denizens of DFW to unleash an avalanche of 100-dollar bills onto anything and anyone. In the time it took to write this sentence, Don Carter has already purchased twelve more statues of himself.

The time is 3:05, and I am the hell out of here.