Boston, September 2

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3 pm:

Passed through security having to only partially disrobe. Once again I've too much shit in my pockets, too many things to remove and replace. It takes longer to get redressed than it does to find an isolated booth at Lucky's and get down to the business at hand.

There's that floating, possessive s in the pub's name, but what exactly does it refer to? Lucky's bar? Lucky's beer? Lucky's awful, dark maroon booths that are little more than vinyl stretched over stapled wooden planks?

Lucky's Soundtrack: Rolling Stones, Billy Joel, old school Aerosmith dripping with that Sweet Emotion. Very easy to lose myself in the moment, wearing the mask of a nomad as if I do this every day. Pull the bill of my cap down low, shade my face like some mysterious stranger, and feel the wandering eyes of fellow travelers follow my fingers across the keyboard. I am a writer, actually. And you?

Lucky's Clientele: Businessmen in suits so crisp you wonder if they iron them in the airplane bathrooms. Teenage girls texting each other from five feet away, either testing their connection or just unused to and uncomfortable with verbal communication. Surfer dudes with shaved heads and board shorts, matching blue moccasins and braggadocio to spare.

Lucky's Visual Entertainment: ESPN, of course, on four different flat screens so that no one has to miss a single pitch or touchdown. But why, then, am I seeing images of Sarah Palin? Does ESPN cover moose hunting now? And if so, can I watch Ted Nugent instead? As outspoken and mouthy as he is, at least he shows that a radical Republican talking head can contain a brain.

Boarding call. Off to Houston, home of NASA's Mission Control, and my dinner. This:

Let's just fast-forward past the four hour hell of being stuck in a plane in front of the three most annoying teenaged girls ever, the photogenic but rather tasteless sub pictured above, and the nine-or-so hours of pure turbulence between Houston and Sao Paulo. Next time we meet, we'll be in Brazil.