Road Notes, Kansas City, MO Airport, 3:01 PM

If you are given the choice, never ever ever ever ever ever connect through this airport.

Scenario: 100 degrees outside, near 80 in the "air conditioned" terminal. Deplane at Gate 29 to find eleven feet of chaos between the gate door and the EXIT sign - between them is the end of the security line. I quickly head toward the exit, then stop, checking the strange layout.

Back to the rep at the counter. I ask if exiting means having to come back in through security to get to my connecting gate, 26. The answer is an inexplicable yes.

Outside the windows lining the long, thin terminal, the single-file line at security stretches past where my eye can see, and I can see easily 500 feet down the long corridor.

I ask if there is anywhere in the terminal to get a drink. The counter-slave says no - but in addition to bathrooms, the terminal has a 'drink guy.'

The 'drink guy' is chugging cough syrup as I approach. I ask for a Diet Coke. He puts it on the counter. I grasp it and it is warmer than my hand. "Cooler's broken," he shares. "$2.32," he adds.

I'm terminal-bound, dry, hot, thirsty, and further disenchanted with the midwest. I miss the turbaned man's singing - at least I know it meant something, as did the time he invested in it.

I have no idea what all the rest of this around me should mean.

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