". . . went to Hooters instead."

For the second time in a week, I found myself in Texas. I had never ever been to the Lone Star State, so its quick reemergence in my life seemed a portent of doom. I wasn't supposed to be in Texas -- a fact alone that foreshadowed that my journey eastward was going to be less than smooth.

I had given up my seat on an overbooked direct flight in return for a $300 travel voucher. It seemed an easy trade -- $300 in lieu of of the comfort of a six hour flight moving purposely towards JFK. Instead I boarded a flight bound for Dallas/Ft. Worth where, after a three hour layover, I would switch to a flight for New York. Simple, yes? I consoled myself with the fact that my proposed January flight to Amsterdam was now all but paid for.

So there I was, in Texas, and with three hours to kill. I did what any good American would do -- shopped and ate. And then I did what I do best -- found the bar.

If an airport can be judged by the quality of its drinking establishments -- nay, the beers on tap -- the C Terminal at the Dallas/Ft. Worth airport hinted at a dismal layover. Oh how I lamented the missed opportunity to sample the microbrews in the SeaTac Airport. Instead I spied oversized former frat boys in sports bars watching television while nursing a Bud Light -- quite possibly my idea of hell. The C Terminal had all the charm of a bunker with an architectural style that harkened back to an age when concrete was a fashionable building material. I immediately hopped on the monorail to the D Terminal where my connecting flight was to depart from. What I found pretty much summed up what I expected from Texas -- a mini-mall surrounded by flight gates. And if anyone were to doubt that everything is bigger in Texas, my "pint" of Sam Adams appeared in a full 22 ounce glass. I could hardly lift it.

Maybe Texas wasn't so bad at all . . . Oh wait, just kidding.

To sum up the rest of my journey, I could only describe it as misery. Three hour layover + 1 hour on plane + deplaning due to engine problems + waiting 1 hour for a new plan to arrive from San Juan + waiting 1.5 hours on the runway for storms to pass = me not getting into JFK until 12:50 am.

Sweet Jesus, I wanted to kill someone.