In the past five months that I have been traveling the MSP-LGA weekly commute, I have met 3 people so far that have given me their cards/contact.

The first fellow traveler I met, I tried to ignore (there was PowerPoint to be tweaked), but he was persistent in talking to me. Turns out, he admires the work of consultants, claiming that we are able to turn ideas and disparity into tangible networks and solutions. It made me wonder what line of work he is in. After a few minutes of conversation, I started to enjoy it; talking about the latest research on consumer behavior, popcorn sales, traveling around the world for a year, and advertising. Turns out, he is the president of kirshenbaum bond + partners, a small but very reputable ad shop. I will contact him if I want to change fields.

The second gentleman I met, the neurosurgeon, I already mentioned in my first blog entry.

The third I met this weekend on my flight to Orlando. A French-blooded, Southern-accented, talkative and fairly attractive beverage-bottling-machine technician. He has lived in Orlando for 19 years, but travels so often that he has over 500,000 miles banked with Continental Airlines. The unpredictability of his job requires constant flights to irregular destinations for indeterminate stays. For this reason, among many others, he and his fiancé split. We chatted about many things, mostly places we've been and what/where we ate there; but really, he wasn't listening. We were conversing because he likes to listen to stories about how he felt after a seven-month stint in Fargo installing a new bottling machine (bored), and hobbies outside of work (architecture). What did interest me about this guy were his hands - they were so worn. His face was that of a sun kissed, blonde hair blue-eyed, 30 year-old bachelor. His hands looked like they had been through both World Wars. His fingers were crooked, like trees bent leftwards from constant ocean winds, slightly larger at the knuckles. I kept wondering if working on bottling machines caused such an alteration, or if it was a genetic disease, or if he actually spends all day cracking and bending his knuckles for a living.

I won't be calling him for, "If you want to try out a new Arabian restaurant I've heard a lot about," but the next time I drink a Coke from a plastic bottle, I might think about the strenuous effort which was required to bottle it that could have molded Nils' hands.

P.S.- What, pray tell, is an 'Arabian restaurant'? Is it located in the dictionary next to 'Oriental person'? Or is correctly used and I am just overly sensitive on behalf of Anjum? Lastly, Happy Independence Day... really.