True, this: We were on separate flights, leaving at almost exactly the same time, albeit from different terminals, around 9:30pm, and we were not allowed to consort beyond the x-ray machines. Boolsheet, I say!
Once we went our separate ways, turns out all the bars were already closed anyway. Without a doubt, many airports seem to be shutting down their bars earlier and earlier—when you can find one at all. And if ever there was a place for a cocktail, it’s an airport, dammit.
Later—much later—I had a 5am layover in Chicago-O’Hare. Of course, everything’s closed. Never mind that there are potential customers galore just shuffling around, bleary-eyed, over-commuted. Am I the only one who sees a problem here? Don’t get me started on the Self-Serve Nation, that’s a rant for another day. Anyway, I did my part by having a bourbon on the rocks the instant—the second— that the O’Hare Bar opened, which is to say 7:00am. I consider it my civic duty—both to my vacation and to the idea that, once upon a time, leisure was treasured. If you don’t like it, you can go to McDonalds, and get a goddamned Diet Coke and an Egg McMuffin. I’ll be in the bar.