Touching down at PDX feels like coming home. There's a girl handing out samples of whiskey, and she remarks upon seeing my ID that we are almost exactly the same age. She's quirky and cool; I like her style. And her whiskey.
We call for a free airport shuttle for the airport hotel and get there just before the kitchen at the off-track betting bar next door closes. Which it evidently did at 10:45. I get a French Dip which seems to be made on garlic bread with cheddar. Together with my Lagavulin, my coconspirator's onion rings, and my side salad, it fills my favorite taste groups: beef, salt, cheese, and whisky, while the green leafy bits soothe me with the illusion of health.
We check into the hotel, and check out of consciousness.
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