Through Atlanta
Once we touch down, I hear the kitty again. She seems to
sense a new opportunity here. You always have to like a cat's chances better on
the ground than in the air. Of course, there's still that little barrier called
a crate to contend with, so she is still at my mercy.
Hart Field is excellent with its efficiency. With the
exception of a border official who does not know what the word 'diplomat'
means, I get through the passport control and customs quickly. The customs
officials are enamored with little Zelda. But that's also Atlanta for you.
People are just a little friendlier, a little more ready to help you, all while
working at a place that works better than most international airports in the States.
Not that we're going to name any names here (Dulles, O'Hare).
Finally, I stow the kitty on the passenger seat next to me in the Toyota I rent, I hit the 85, and we're off. I curse myself for not figuring out this option before. Over Atlanta. Atlanta has changed since the last time I saw it in the early 90's. The skyline is more crowded. There's Turner Field, although that park is soon to be replaced by a new park in the burbs. These aren't your daddy's Braves owned, well, by Mr. Turner himself, anymore. Back then a powerhouse, now in the doghouse of the National League.
Seven out of the ten radio stations I tune it to play hip hop, there's another difference. What hasn't changed is that hot, muggy heat of the Deep South that almost makes you long for winter. Hotlanta, right? People are just a little friendlier, even on the road. I don't have time for Atlanta's hospitality. I see it's three hours to Greenville, South Carolina, and GSP (Greenville/Spartanburg) Airport. The kitty wiggles a little in the bag next to me. She doesn't care if this is a plane or a car. What matters is the bag she is zipped into. This is the end of the Labor Day weekend, so I expect a lot more traffic.
Liebi and the kids have beaten me to the airport, although not by much. The attendant at Alamo checks the car, nods. 'You look like you have a trusting face,' he says. I unload the car, including suitcases, backpack, and kitty. The kids are tickled pink to see the cat again. So far, they have only dealt with her in Zelda's hometown, Dar es Salaam.
Back in Tryon, the cat wastes little times exploring her new surroundings. You would think a rest would be in order after such a long journey, although the cat would argue she did little else in the last 24 hours. Now it is time for the cat to eat, drink and pick up some love from the kids that she's missed for so long.
On the balcony, I crack a Sierra Nevada and gaze over the foothills. Peace. Quiet. No cities for a while again, just country folk in a country town rarely seen on a map. In a few days it will be Liebi's turn to head to Africa and clean up.
For the time being, the world chump will be grounded. But that's okay. Especially my non-American readers will get to read about the U.S. again, if they fancy it. And they usually do.
Finally, I stow the kitty on the passenger seat next to me in the Toyota I rent, I hit the 85, and we're off. I curse myself for not figuring out this option before. Over Atlanta. Atlanta has changed since the last time I saw it in the early 90's. The skyline is more crowded. There's Turner Field, although that park is soon to be replaced by a new park in the burbs. These aren't your daddy's Braves owned, well, by Mr. Turner himself, anymore. Back then a powerhouse, now in the doghouse of the National League.
Seven out of the ten radio stations I tune it to play hip hop, there's another difference. What hasn't changed is that hot, muggy heat of the Deep South that almost makes you long for winter. Hotlanta, right? People are just a little friendlier, even on the road. I don't have time for Atlanta's hospitality. I see it's three hours to Greenville, South Carolina, and GSP (Greenville/Spartanburg) Airport. The kitty wiggles a little in the bag next to me. She doesn't care if this is a plane or a car. What matters is the bag she is zipped into. This is the end of the Labor Day weekend, so I expect a lot more traffic.
Liebi and the kids have beaten me to the airport, although not by much. The attendant at Alamo checks the car, nods. 'You look like you have a trusting face,' he says. I unload the car, including suitcases, backpack, and kitty. The kids are tickled pink to see the cat again. So far, they have only dealt with her in Zelda's hometown, Dar es Salaam.
Back in Tryon, the cat wastes little times exploring her new surroundings. You would think a rest would be in order after such a long journey, although the cat would argue she did little else in the last 24 hours. Now it is time for the cat to eat, drink and pick up some love from the kids that she's missed for so long.
On the balcony, I crack a Sierra Nevada and gaze over the foothills. Peace. Quiet. No cities for a while again, just country folk in a country town rarely seen on a map. In a few days it will be Liebi's turn to head to Africa and clean up.
For the time being, the world chump will be grounded. But that's okay. Especially my non-American readers will get to read about the U.S. again, if they fancy it. And they usually do.
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