DCA

Arrived by cab at DCA, otherwise known as National Airport (I still refuse to call it Reagan National!), this afternoon for my short hop to Newark International. The call sign DCA, I decided, is an acronym. D for deafening. It was hard to hear what the ticket agent was trying to say. C for crowded. A fellow behind me in line rushed to get ahead. And A for the absolutely anodyne kind of music being relentlessly piped over the airport's loudspeakers. Why???!!!

Anyway, boarded this ERJ-135 at around 4:30 p.m. Terri was our flight attendant, a bleach-blond with bangs, dark mascara, no smile, and all business. Short. I suppose she has to be inasmuch as the cabin itself isn't exactly, what you might say, commodious. I had to duck just to board. Two young women seated behind me in 9C and 9D are headed to Dublin and concerned about connecting with their flight. Passengers are offered water and snacks. Terri's hair, by the way, falls to below her shoulders. Probably has not seen a brush in several hours. :-)