On waiting (for the next flight)

 We have all been there. You are at a major airport, and you have four hours until your next flight. Maybe you have a book, maybe you want to nap, maybe you are hungry or thirsty. Once you pass security and actually enter the gate areas, you have passed into a space, betwixt and between, that is neither here nor there, and maybe not anywhere at all. Stuck in a weird space/time tunnel with twenty-five thousand of your closest friends. If you know this liminal space, perhaps you know where to go--a local watering hole. You watch the clock while you order an over-priced beer. They have you over a barrel since you can't really leave the airport for something better. You are hoping against hope that Godot finally shows up, but you know he won't. You order a pretty good shrimp cocktail for your lunch. At least the food in this joint is somewhat edible. You fool with your phone. You check out the sports playing out on the various televisions. The waitress is making pink drink (with umbrella) for someone. Busboys scurry about, emptying tables and mopping up the mess the previous person has left. The whole thing is so very anonymous even though the bar tender knows you as Pablo and you know her as Terry (with the glue-on smile). "Can I get you another one of those?" she asks. You watch a cricket match between two countries you don't recognize (really? England and Pakistan, get with it). I don't understand the rules to cricket, and I'm not sure I want to know them. You receive a text from the airlines: gate change. You sip on your second beer. There must be a special corollary to Einstein's special theory of relativity: If you look at your watch or a clock often to check the time while you wait, time actually moves slower.  I can't prove it, but it must be true. You pay your bill, adding a tip, and you leave, heading to your new gate and hoping that boarding will start soon and you can get going. I guess this is a first world problem. I head to the bathroom.