This was the most stressful thing ever-- I get to the airport a solid hour early and pass it in the bar, going to the gate (yeah, you can do that here) to meet The Marco as he got off his plane. Except he doesn't come off. So I run down to baggage claim, thinking I've missed him. Everyone's bags have already been taken, and the carousel has stopped. I freak. That's when I realize I missed a phone call a while back (no message), and I become convinced that I had the wrong flight and he arrived an hour earlier and I was not there. Not cool!
So I hop a taxi home mad fast, and there's no Marco. Martina is trying to talk me down from the roof to no avail, so I do what any good American would do and pour myself a massive glass of wine and camp it outside with two rogue cigarettes to await the inevitable phonecall/arrival. Turns out he missed a connecting flight and couldn't call to let me know, and so got into Adelaide right as I was on the porch losing my shit. So he caught a taxi. And things were cool.
A nip of whiskey, pool-shooting at The British, and pizza before homeboy turned in quite early-- he has been awake and flying for about a billion years.
Drink Count: 9
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