Our friend "Raffish" went to Managua, Nicaragua, for the Christmas holiday. He lives in San Diego, but connections are better out of LAX so it's the custom for him to drive up here and leave his Jeep in our driveway. We take him to his flight and pick him up when he comes back home. All very orderly and efficient as we live about 20 minutes from LAX.
Previously, he's arrived during the day but last night's flight didn't get in until the middle of the night, or rather what I consider the middle of the night. His plane was due in at 10:50 p.m. but on checking we found that it wouldn't actually be there until 11:30 p.m. And then there was Customs ...
He called when he'd cleared Customs and we took off for LAX. He'd elected to walk from Customs to Terminal 2 to avoid the crush at Tom Bradley Int'l of incoming passengers.
Terminal 2 was nearly deserted and there he sat on a handy bench, shivering. Last night's cold was hardly a "Welcome back from sunny Nic!" and his cotton shirt was no match for the cold breeze. He threw his duffle into the back seat and joined it. Grinning, he held it up a little and shook it and a pleasant "gurgle gurgle" sound emanated from it. He had a wolfish grin and said, "Flor de Cana! - aged 12 years!"
It was 1 a.m. so we didn't crack it. Today, however, is a totally different story. More of which tomorrow. This particular rum is believed to be the cat's pajamas.
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