First Steps

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    TSA check-in isn't nearly as gruesome as I remember. Maybe they finally put regular travelin' folk in charge of the program.

    I'm wearing my knee-high compression socks, making me feel like I have elvish armor under my clothes. Plenty of friends recommended I get a few pairs for the longer legs of air travel, and it sounded like good, you-won't-sorry advice from flyers more frequent than me. Compression socks gently squeeze your feet, ankles, and calves so blood doesn't settle there as you sit in rarified air for extended times. I imagine the socks act like they're getting the last dribble of toothpaste out of the tube. Pushing and coaxing the blood up against gravity and common sense. Keep it moving, please. Can't stay here.

    I sit in Concourse B of Dulles International Airport, well lit, lightly populated, polishing off an egg and sausage creation from Potbelly Sandwich Shop. With time to kill, near to Gate 49. Still a shock to see "Istanbul" on the gate screen, after years of expecting Richmond or Buffalo, Charlotte or Philadelphia. Istanbul (not Constantinople), really?

    The morning has been straight-forward. Out of the house, pleasant driving weather, GPS and an audiobook to guide my way. Thank you, Bill, for keying me in to the ParkSleepFly option, the deal when you can park at an airport hotel and let its shuttle escort you to the terminal. I'll have a room waiting for me upon my late-night return two weeks from now.

    The journey through the terminal---check-in, security, shuttle---to this comfortable cafe table with my egg and sausage sandwich was streamlined and stress-free. Clear, concise signage and helpful employees who seem to enjoy their jobs at every turn. Guiding me along much like my newfangled socks are circulating my blood in a helpful manner. Pushing and coaxing me along. Keep it moving, folks. Can't stay here.

    May my good fortune continue.


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