After a flight from hell, the airport terminal is a maze of numbers and letters. Nothing is open,all the boutique fronts are gated, shuttered. It seems as if everyone else has found home. No one is sweeping the floors, no one waits to polish shoes. The escalators have stopped moving.
Somewhere there must be a coffee machine, with luck that takes a credit card; there is no place to exchange currency.
A man in an orange uniform brushes by.
He stops. "Best coffee is in San Fran. You won't find that here!" He keeps walking. I run after him.