I hope to be filing regular updates from the Seattle Sheraton Hotel over the next five days during the annual meeting of the Organization of American Historians. So far the trip has been uneventful. In other words, I am still in Big Regional Airport, but my plane appears to be on time and Dunkin' Donuts was not out of cinnamon raisin bagels. The only glitch was mine. Coming through security it appeared, for an unpleasant few minutes, that I had lost my driver's license in between the desk where I had presented it for examination and the station where luggage is searched and X-rayed. Clearly I would make my plane in plenty of time, but returning from Seattle without identification could be an issue. As I frantically rifled my pockets and waved people ahead of me, the TSA guard on duty snarled, "Move along!"
"I can't," I explained. "I seem to have lost my identification."
"Well, what do you expect me to do about it," she snapped, even more unpleasantly. Ummm, nothing, I thought irritably, realizing that this was one of those moments where a response in kind could end in a strip search and a missed plane. Just then a voice from behind me whispered, "Well, it looks like Girlfriend missed the courtesy training. Can I help you?" It was a lovely gay boy in the uniform of a Northwest Airlines flight attendant, who helped me go through everything methodically until the missing ID appeared. I realize that many of you will think this is a coincidence, but in fact it is evidence for what both queer people and the Christian Right know: that We Are Everywhere, We Recognize Each Other, and We Come To Each Other's Assistance. This is a true fact.
But back to the OAH. Those who wish to see the Radical in scholarly mode should present themselves tomorrow at 10:30 at her panel, and probably at the blogging panel as well where I may, in fact, contribute to the event by live blogging it if the hotel internet connection permits. Otherwise, the usual rules apply: readers are commanded to identify themselves at any and all opportunities.
Dateline, Detroit Airport, 11:21 AM I used to avoid the Detroit airport like the plague, and of course now it is impossible to do so since you can't get a direct flight to the West Coast from Big Regional. But in my absence, this facility has been transformed. Forget running down the concourse like a maniac: not only have they installed moving sidewalks, but there is a lovely electric air tram. Gone are the moldy carpets of my youth, replaced by stainless steel and polished floors. Gone the cruddy little news stands, replaced by Borders (two on the A concourse alone), massage bars, wine shops and lovely restaurants. OK, not lovely perhaps, but not all McDonalds and Chilis Too. I am blogging from a Jose Cuervo Tequilaria: briefly considered a marguerita, but decided that beginning to drink before you even get to the OAH is probably the beginning of the Road to Hell.
While the shopping in Detroit is not quite as nice as in, say, Minneapolis or Philadelphia, there are a few nice stores, including several where you can buy sports gear that reference the many college and professional teams of Michigan. Note to self: if Margaret Soltan started receiving D-I tee shirts anonymously from airports around the country, how long would it take her to figure out that it was me?
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