Though my trip to Seattle was, overall, a great time, there were some bad parts. One of them was my journey home. I had to get to the airport by 6AM, which was fine as I was still on EST, but when I got on the plane, I was immediately surrounded by very small children.
There was the Russian toddler sitting behind me who kept kicking my seat. (To be fair, every time I turned around, his stern looking dad made him stop—Putinesque parenting skills you don't often witness in my neck of the woods.) The newborn in front of me who would occasionally burst into tears, and the two-year-old sitting in front of the newborn, who would periodically scream at the top of his lungs for no apparent reason.
But the howling children paled in comparison to the irritation that awaited me once I disembarked. I climb into my cab and discover that I have absolutely no cash. Shit. Then I notice the credit card machine. I ask the driver (mistake—don't ask, just do!) if I could pay with my credit card. He lets out a big, put-upon sigh and doesn't say anything, just angrily whips the steering wheel to the left. Kind of intimidated, I call the Large Greek, who happened to be home, to see if he had any cash. . . .