There are many things I like about the South. The polite people. The food. Mostly the food. I don’t enjoy the heat. I can feel it pounding down through the airport like a fist, or maybe it’s the accumulated sweat of so many people packed into such a tight space. Not that Atlanta is small or anything.
I caught the might flight out of Seattle because it’s way more expensive flying from Seattle to Orlando, then Seattle to Nashville. And for some reason, I got some sleep. I blame the flight attendants. They kept the plane dim, quiet, and walked around handing out cups of water so we’d all stay hydrated. No matter what people say, I always pick Delta if it’s anywhere near the lowball figure.
The radio in the airport says the heat index on the other side of the walls is going to reach 106 today. I don’t know if I can deal with it. I’ve acclimatized, and to me, 78 is hot, shading to unbearable. Even the pigeons look hot, waddling through steaming puddles of water and it’s not even 9 am.
I was thrilled to find out I was flying from concourse A. My absolutely favorite Atlanta concourse. This is the concourse that flies into the South, and it’s chock full of places where I like to eat. Krystal. Paschals. Chik-fil-A. Although to be fair, I dithered around at Paschals wondering if it’d be better to trek to the far end of the concourse and look for Krystal before I got close enough to notice they had hash.
Not the nasty dried out or soupy stuff they have in the Northwest, but nice thick mounds of quivering pink goodness. And biscuits and gravy. No choice. Like I can walk away from corned beef hash and biscuits and gravy. They threw in a couple of scoops of scrambled eggs, and even though I walked past the Chik-fil-A to get to my gate, I only had a minor twinge. Much as I wanted a chicken biscuit, I’m pretty happy.
There’s a Chik-fil-A in the Orlando airport and I can get my chicken fix before flying back home.