In Transit

The first leg of my journey to China was an entry into the U.S., changing planes at Washington DC. Not having had much to eat on the previous 11 hour flight and facing the prospect of a further 5 hours, I caved and bought some airport food. I looked for the most un-fast-food-looking place I could find and settled for a toasted tuna sandwich. It was made "fresh", as in freshly transferred from the freezer to the grill, and wrapped in a couple layers of deli paper, then placed in a brown paper bag.

With no time to eat before boarding, I took it on the plane to wait until I was allowed to use my tray-table without causing whatever gruesome accidents all airlines fear will happen if you unfold them before reaching cruising altitude. (Severed arms? Dented foreheads? Passengers rendered uncontrollable by the sheer excitement of repeatedly folding and unfolding the tray-tables during the multi-thousand-foot climb? Who knows.) Unfortunately by that time the dirty little secret of the airport food stall had been revealed. The sandwich had soaked through all the layers of paper to literally drench the brown bag with grease. When I picked it up from the floor where I had left it during takeoff, there was a small pool of grease left behind. It occurred to me that it would be fitting if, when re-entering the U.S., the immigration control agent handed over one of those sandwiches when saying, "Welcome back to the United States, sir."

I wish I could remember the name of the stall to warn anyone reading this. Unfortunately the best I can do is to recommend giving a wide birth to any food around gate C-2 at Dulles International Airport. Oh Buenos Aires, I'm already longing for your empanadas and ice cream, with sidewalk cafes where people don't eat dinner until 11pm.