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Traveling around the Holidays is one of those weird things, especially if you’re me, and all by your lonesome. You hop on a plane, cross country with strangers on your way to see family—a kind of sinner’s progress as I am by NOOOOOOO means a pilgrim—and then head back to your state of residence with another butt-load of strangers (yay) all over again. Don’t get me wrong; I love living as a hermit in California. Still, sometimes I have to leave the damned place—I get that, too; It’s just that the things I have to do getting from point A to point B really suck.

On the bright side, as a living, breathing, technicolor adult (of sorts), I can use an airport bar (Vino Volo being my favorite) to deaden the soul-killing monotony of travel and the torture of the introvert’s plight for an hour or so. What introvert’s plight, you ask me? Why, that of being stuck with a bunch of snot-nosed, squealing toddlers and grumpy families whom I don’t know and whom, if I’m honest with myself, I also probably (definitely) wouldn’t give a flying pig or hunk of monkey poop to know on any given Saturday or Sunday.

This is an airport, for Christ’s sake; I am an introvert, not a fricking cruise director. Trust me—there is no Julie, no Love Boat, and no dice.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes, I believe we had settled on alcohol. Wine is my magic elixir of choice. A glass of deep red Malbec on this trip, if you want to get into the specifics here.

You see, wine is the perfect people placebo. It gets you to that warm, fuzzy point  where it’s  easier to handle them for short periods of time. Like the next six hours. Which is roughly the time I still have left to “enjoy.”

Wish me luck and cheers, my friends.

Cheers.