The uber that picked me up was like out of some Ridley Scott movie. In the age of Covid, a transparent plastic curtain held up by gray duct tape was all that separated me from the driver. Viral transmission was too viable for my comfort level, so I squeezed the metal strip on my mask tighter over my nose.
There were less drivers on I-35 than on Mars. Still, traffic slowed down through downtown where the highway splits into the lower and upper ramps. It always does.
The line at security was empty, but I stood behind two guys in TSA-Pre, because I was TSA-Pre. There was no line at the airport lounge, but unless you were a well-connected woman, you had to order your cerveza take-away.
I’m on a coffee run for Karen. She has this thing for Taste of San Antonio. You can’t buy it where I’m from. I’ll be back for more soon.