LAX

Or Los Angeles International Airport to give it its full title. The airport is reminiscent of the old Bangkok airport in the mid 1990's; dated, ramshackle, confined, badly in need of refurbishment if not outright demolition. As I arrived on a domestic flight I had to walk nearly a kilometre to get to the international terminal on a narrow sidewalk, all the time weaving my way through lines of grumpy people waiting on pick-ups, taxis, shuttle buses, or just waiting. There seemed to have been a rampant outbreak of food poisoning prior to my arrival as there were vivid splashes of vomit on the sidewalk and dripping off one of the escalators. The noise was insistent, very LA I suspect; the constant irritated beeping of horns, yells, shouted negotiations between the taxi drivers as to which car picked up which passengers.
Inside the airport was no better. Lines at security were long and slow, and what our American cousins term 'airside facilities' (i.e. duty free shopping, restaurants, cafes, etc.) consisted of a couple of kiosks and a packed 'Samuel Adams' cafe. And nothing else. And this is supposed to be land of the brave and the free and the consumer. I am afraid Cian there will be no fire engine this time. For that you can blame the resolutely socialist infrastructure planning of the airport authorities.
I should have gone with the good old boys to Houston. Instead I have 12 long hours to Tokyo ahead of me, during which time Wednesday, March 20th will disappear in one of those space-time continuum paradoxes that afflict Michael J. Fox and trans-Pacific flights.