San Juan, Dominica, Guadalupe, Martinique. Nostalgia soon overtook me, right smack in the middle of the tour, and I began recalling other tropical airport ambiences I have known. So, what the heck, for a minute there, while gazing at those arches, I let myself go with the flow. I mean, of course, within the confines of the sterile zone. Who says that dining under palm corpses will throw a pall over the “tropical” ambience those innovators at Host International Food and Beverage Services are hoping to attain?Īnd, truth be told, the restaurant arches with the orange neon zigzagging lights are a pretty wild and crazy touch. A fake armadillo’s skin.īut, I don’t know, maybe I’m overreacting. Now the trunks have the look and feel of an armadillo’s skin. So, according to Courtney, the trees were embalmed, shot up the spine with some sort of freeze drying fluid and voila! instant petrified forest. Potential problems, especially when it involves a $62-million terminal already megabucks over budget and months behind schedule, are unwelcome. Maintenance of the fickle palms in the Host International Food and Beverage Services area-how’s that for a snappy name?-was deemed a potential problem. These are the only bit of greenery in the so-called “sterile zone” (their words, not mine) beyond the metal detectors. There wasn’t a Hare Krishna or a Jew for Jesus or a pro-nuke pamphleteer in sight.īut, still, I did pick up some clues as to what could be in store should you attempt to get a little too familiar with the inanimate Thomas F. This could be because I toured it before The Public-that means you-had a stab at gumming things up. Or maybe I’ve just gotten the wrong idea about this place.
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