So, my new husband had tricked me. We were scheduled to fly out of San Francisco Airport all the way to Fort Lauderdale, Florida, flight initials, FLL. That was pretty exciting to hear, actually. Mr. Grouchy chauffeur drove us right up to the Harvey Milk Terminal (“formerly called the South Terminal,” Bob whispered as if everyone couldn’t hear him.)
Two guys were waiting for our arrival at the terminal. They hadn’t driven with us, but Timothy obviously expected them and gave them a quick Justin, Jose in greeting with a brief nod of recognition. (I figure that Terry knew them, too, because he clapped both of the guys on the back like they were good buddies of his.)
Anyway, those guys, plus two more who had been waiting inside the terminal before joining us, gathered around and tried to give assistance for us limo passengers. (We were definitely not energetically jumping out of the limo. More descriptively, we slowly climbed out of the stretched limo, which might seem ridiculous after our comfortable ride, but it had been almost two hours of sitting in what Terry had called “light traffic”.
The four brawny and very masculine men herded themselves almost immediately to the back of the limo so they could remove our luggage. Timothy, Bob, Terry, Ben, Daniel, and I hung around until they had hefted it all and were ready to wheel it into the terminal.
(No, it wasn’t all mine. Timothy and I only had three, but the guys had one each. Still, that was a lot of suitcases.)
Inside the airport, there were crowds everywhere. A couple of toddlers were crawling on the floor. A baby was screaming, an old woman was pushing her walker, assorted groupings of young families were nestled around their possessions, couples were hugging and smooching, two guys with casts on their legs and crutches were hobbling forward.
I even got a peek at a calico cat in a bright pink carrier who was meowing frantically as it passed by us. Perhaps its terror was partly because passing right behind it, came two small dogs on leashes whose tongues were hanging so low they almost touched the ground.
Frankly, the terminal was a mad house, and the noise was about the equivalent to the rock concert Cara had talked Sammy and me into attending.