Have tartan, will travel

No matter how well I may try to prepare, I always end up running around like a crazed weasel two hours before my flight.

In my defense, today’s mad rush wasn’t entirely my fault: The taxi driver got lost on his way to pick me up. He called me to request directions and, when I asked for his location, he replied—in very broken English—that he was on a golf course. I presume he meant “near.”

It turned out OK. I arrived at the airport with plenty of time to spill mayonnaise all over my shirt. Then, I settled in for the long wait.

Most people seem to hate sitting at an airport, but it’s one of my favorite pastimes. Where else do you get to witness behavioral meltdowns in such a variety of languages?

And what is it about travel that brings out the worst in people? Maybe the folks around me were dog-tired, but holy cow!

The worst of the lot was the young tyrant who was screaming into his iPhone. “Just find the @&#%* file!” I listened only long enough to discover that *he* had mislabeled the file. He didn’t apologize to whomever he was abusing.

Well, regardless of how stressful traveling can be, I still love it.

Today I’m on my way to my Scottish clan’s reunion in Seattle. My mom and dad are there already, as are a couple dozen strangers who happen to share the same name.

I bring with me a sash in the tartan my family has worn for generations. I think my forefathers would be proud to know that their descendants are still clinging to the old ways, if only ceremonially.

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