Home is a relative term

Tuesday, Feb 18, 2003. 9:35am.

I forgot my belt this morning. Forgetting to take things with you when travelling is a universal concept, but it’s rare for one to forget common wardrobe accessories. But travel often takes one out of their element.

That was this mornings first travel mistake. The second was forgetting that my new manicure set contained a small pair of scissors. That is no longer an issue, thanks to the watchful eye of the Transportation Security Agency. I honestly could do more damage with nail file or a good Cross pen than using the millimeter length blades of my tiny toenail trimmers. Hell, I would prefer my belt as a weapon.

By the way Mom, thanks for the manicure set. It was a thoughtful Christmas present. If you’re shopping for my birthday, I already have a set of steak knives.

I always remember to leave my Leatherman at home when I go to the airport, but the nail set didn’t even cross my mind. I was probably too busy forgetting my belt. They never question the fact I often have my employee badge holder attached to my waist (the one with a two foot long retractable laminated steel cable). But the badge holder is usually attached to my belt. Good thing my pants fit.

I don’t go to Starbucks must at home, but I frequent them on the road. Upon arriving at Concourse D I hand an instinctive right for Gate D28. My flight is at Gate D3, but Starbucks is in the opposite direction. I can’t stand the muffins they bake at the airport franchises, but a Grande Chai manages to be a Grande Chai no matter where I am (except in Oregon, where proper humidity and rare gravitational forces somehow transform tea and spices into a heavenly milk-dressed nectar).

Frequent siliconchef.com readers have seen me rant on Starbucks’ rampant ubiquity, if ubiquity can be assigned linguistic modifiers such as ‘rampant’. I find that traveler, even the most adventurous, tend to seek out familiar ground when traversing the globe. This explains why Americans warm up to every other English-speaking person they encounter in a foreign country (except Scotland, where most Americans are ignorant of the fact the locals are already speaking English).

I loathe McDonald’s with a McPassion, so Starbucks is the next logical port of ubiquity where I can to drop anchor. The phrase “any port in a storm” comes to mind, assuming this port is under a green sign and derives revenue from processed South American beans. It’s not exactly a home away from home (I tend to reserve that honor for major airline hubs), but home is a relative term.

My early morning drive from Loganville to Hartsfield International Airport involves a transition from I-20 West to I-75/I-85 South. The southbound turn is a wide and sweeping curve over an unusually large grass median. In the summer you can see the homeless just waking from their beds as the sun peeks in between the bridges. It is much colder now, so the urban outdoorsmen are huddled in tents under the bridge abutments. Makeshift shelters line the roadside as a drive past East Point, tarps poles just visible between the pine trees.

It didn’t take long for me to check-in at the America West counter. Phoenix is rarely snowed in, making America West a proper choice for cross-county travel in February. The blizzard to my north has no effect on my travel plans, but not everyone here is so lucky. Over one hundred stranded passengers spent the night in this airport. I pass them on the way to security, many still sleeping in the atrium.

Couches and phone booths don’t seem like home to me, but home is a relative term.