The smoking rooms at the Atlanta airport should be shuttered, fumigated with Febreze and turned into fruit smoothie stands.
I was flying to Louisiana through Atlanta yesterday, on my way to a funeral.
A recipe for smoking if I ever heard one.
As I have already complained about earlier in this blog, I do not fly well.
So I have a one-connection flight to contend with, not to mention a death in my wife's family.
So I get off the first flight, and head to my connecting gate, at B23.
Then, from somewhere on my right side, I hear the hiss of the sliding door, the roar of the fan from inside the room.
Sallow travellers walking in and out, their faces wrinkled.
The smoking room. Fast becoming extinct in airports around North America.
Like a moth to light, I move closer, wondering if I could have just one cigarette.
With one flight down and one more to go, my nerves were frayed. Just one to take the edge off. I wouldn't buy a pack. I could just bum one off one of the good folks in the smoking room.
I walked up to the precipice then backed away, and moved closer to my gate, probably muttering to myself.
I walked back.
I must have walked past the smoking room eight times, mulling what I should do.
Somehow I talked myself out of walking in that room.