La,la,la,layover
It was a land of flip-flops and cotton-candy pants. I could almost feel the sunburn on their cheeks and smell the tequila. It didn't matter if they were coming or going. Bleached blond boys with their roots showing were hanging onto tiny girls with cali on one cheek and fornia on the other. Woven together by the fibers in their trendy track suits they meandered toward the gate to Ft. Lauderdale or Cancun or some such tropical destination. "This is going to be awesome" their eyes seemed to say. Mostly, they traveled in threes and fives. Someone's arm was always around someone else. One could only imagine that the odd one out was hoping that the closer they got to the equator the closer the group would become. And it wouldn't just be them, it would be an entire bar or row of bars or maybe even a city. It would be this pulsing mass of track suits and flip-flops and butt cheeks with important messages all pounding together in one heap of rollicking Spring Breakedness. All this in the Detroit airport. And it wasn't even noon.