16
May
2006
I
recently found myself in Atlanta. Most conventioneers take the taxi
from the airport to downtown, but since I was traveling on the largess
of the Company, a buck-75 MARTA train ride felt more responsible than a
$20 cab fare.
And so it was that I emerged from the caverns beneath Peachtree Plaza, squinting into the afternoon sun, searching among the canyons of steel and cement for my hotel.
“Where ya headed?”
He was five-foot-nothin’ and dressed in the somewhat ragged attire we used to discourage the kids from wearing in public.
And so it was that I emerged from the caverns beneath Peachtree Plaza, squinting into the afternoon sun, searching among the canyons of steel and cement for my hotel.
“Where ya headed?”
He was five-foot-nothin’ and dressed in the somewhat ragged attire we used to discourage the kids from wearing in public.








