jet.

Into an airport, checked in, through security, and to my gate in 20 minutes. I do believe that this, fellas and dames, is a personal record.

It's also more than likely entirely attributable to the fact that this is PDX, the tamer, more civilian-minded cousin of SEA, replacing SEA's fast-striding Business Swagger with a relaxed, it's-8-AM-but-sure-the-brewery-is-open-I-mean-why-not stroll. I used to work at this airport, 12 years ago, at the ripe old age of 16. Back then, TSA was more an afterthought than the wacky, lurching hybrid of rape and inconvenience it is now. I worked for a company called Huntleigh Dispatch. We formed the First Line of Defense in front of the TSA goons' scary monitors, and our sole responsibility was matching people's IDs with their boarding passes for eight hours straight. Three days a week, from 4AM to noon, I stood in sensible shoes (Reeboks, now classic, should've saved them) and scratchy blue polyester pants, admiring the passports of beautiful, tired people from exotic locales, wondering if I'd ever be slick and dangerous enough to get a hold of one of those puppies for myself.

I'm pleased to report that no matter how you parsed that last sentence - whether it was one of the passports or one of the people I was so eager to possess - I have, at this late stage in my irresponsible life, ended up a proud owner of both; though one of the two would probably prove somewhat more retaliatory if they heard me refer to myself as such. (Yes, I have a very aggressive passport.) Indeed, it's because of my passport and my tall, eccentric, yet compelling reason to use it that I'm currently at this airport, breathing its unique fragrance (huurgh) and wondering why the F I'm always either so early or so late and can never just be on goddamn time for once.

YES, you heard me! IT'S VACATION and I'M GOING TO EUROPE AGAIN. Probably for the last time in a while, as K has once again caught a bad case of wanderlust and decided to pursue his unique destiny in New York City rather than in the quaint, yet somehow sterile confines of overpriced, underwhelming Zurich. Because he has not yet done all the traveling his bizarre amalgamation of personality traits demands, he has invited me to come hang out with him and tool about the country for a few weeks. I have agreed to do so, because I find him good-looking and charming, am consistently impressed by his banter, and admire his exquisite taste in restaurants.

We will spend a few days in Zurich after I arrive, me more than likely refusing to be extricated from bed except to watch Adventure Time and consume ice cream and liquor, before visiting Amsterdam, where I will snicker self-importantly at their oh-so-fancy "legal marijuana" and probably fall into a canal. Then it's on to Vienna to visit the world's oldest zoo, admire the pandas in all their sexually insufficient glory, and sweat nervously every time I see someone who looks like someone I might have known from Salzburg. Finally, we go on to Budapest, to bathe (separately, PG-ratedly) in what I've heard are some sort of famous baths, and probably go clubbing until our eardrums fall out and our legs turn to string cheese. Then we finish up in Zurich, taking a weekend to recover and regret everything before K heads to Belarus to reclaim his ancient birthright as its ruler (or visit family or something, whatever, I don't know) and I return to the great state of Washington fragmented into a million jet-lagged, emotionally-perilous pieces and attempt to go to work the morning after I fly in.

It's gonna be damn great. Stay tuned.