Tears in Ferengi

Now, I am not a person who regularly bursts into tears. More often I burst into song. Or into anger. Not tears, and certainly not in an airport. However, any usually stalwart gal (or guy) would quite likely have acted the same. Here is what happened:

After the antique market (which I know, I have not yet described, and I mean to, really. I will. Tomorrow.) I fetched lunch and my bags (unbelievably strong Hungarian girl weighing maybe 110 lbs carried it easily down the 99 steps, with me following behind murmuring in amazement and gratitude) and waited outside for my former host, who had offered to drive me to the airport. The offer was much appreciated, as the zipper on my bag was (is) beyond repair and 'I had no idea what I would do if the rest of the bag burst open on the subway or a public bus)

Although there was a fair amount of traffic, we arrived at the airport with just over an hour to spare. I bit my host farewell (with many hugs and kisses) and dragged the sorry bag and myself into the small terminal.

I am tired tonight. The dramatic recounting of events shall have to wait..