I used to say that when I die and go to hell, I’ll have to make a connecting flight in Atlanta, which would make my destination that much more bearable.
These days it seems that after discarding my belief in hell, all my connecting flights are through George Bush Intergalactic Airport in Houston. And there’s a halfway decent, if feloniously overpriced, bar and restaurant at the entrance of concourse C where I can refuel after missing my connection.
Godspeed, traveller.