Fort Lauderdale International Airport. Midnight. My hotel shuttle bus creeps along the front of the terminal, preparing to exit to the road. We pause at a stop sign. Nearby, five sideways-baseball-capped, unshaven, mouth-breathing Einsteins in baggy shorts are waiting for a vision. They look up at the van, on which is embossed an enormous letter "S" and the word SHERATON. They stare at the van for a long time. Then they yell out to the driver, through his open window, "Hilton?"
(Actually, it came out more like "Hill-in? You goin' to the Hill-in?")
And me without a two-by-four handy.