Day 1 - BNA/LAS/PDX

I'm writing from the middle of my 3+ hour layover in Las Vegas, and this is easily the weirdest airport I've ever been to. I had joked with a couple of people within the last couple of weeks about the possibility of there being slot machines in the airport--and they were literally the first thing I saw when I stepped out of the jetway. They fill just about every inch of available space that isn't otherwise occupied with CSI-shirt laden souvenir stands, cocktail bars, and fast food places. It doesn't seem nearly big enough for the amount of people, which is made particularly apparent by the lines in the ladies' restrooms. Speaking of the restrooms, they come equipped with biohazard disposal bins. Like, to throw away your hypodermic needles. I'm not the worldliest of travelers, but I've never seen that anywhere else--not even in the Amsterdam airport.

On the other hand, the airport offers free public WiFi. Holla.

Amy advised me to hold out until I made it all the way down the concourse to the Starbucks, no matter how bad my caffeine jones was when I got off the plane. I was happy for the wise advice, and in following it, noticed something about myself. I think I am overly invested in being liked by service employees, such as waiters and baristas. The dude in front of me in the Starbucks line was quite rude to the staff, and without even thinking about it, I tried to compensate for his rudeness by being extra nice myself.

Now, part of that response may come from having worked in service myself--let me tell you, people can be crazy rude at the library. But still, why should I care so much if I am liked--for however fleeting a moment--by the Starbucks folks at the Las Vegas airport? Perhaps the compulsion to be polite is not the worst of transgressions, but still--it provides food for thought as I embark on this journey of listening and learning over the next three-and-a-half weeks.

About the blog title--some of you already know the origin of the name "OysterGirl," and how I am using it in some of my present endeavors. For you that don't, I'll write more about this another time. But with regards to the current season of my life, the tabla rasa I've been given, so to speak, Lindsay remarked the other day (in a mock-Brooklynesque accent), "Da woyld is yawh OY-STAH!" I didn't really think about this until I read that phrase again today in What Color is Your Parachute--but when I did, I remembered Lindsay's woyds and they really resonated. What am I doing over the next few weeks if not searching for treasure, or at least learning to search for it?

Happy Flag Day! Don't forget to stop at Walgreen's and buy your flag a card. Check back for updates as the days and weeks progress.