Preamble Ran through a bunch of quartets at my NEC professor friend's house (in preparation for not touching an instrument for some weeks to come). Op. 80 and 51#2 on viola, followed by Op. 127 and Death and the Maiden on first fiddle. Punctuated by chili, a lot of chocolate, and a couple naps, after which I got dropped off at the T stop for the ride from the burbs to Logan. On some stops there's a machine where you scan your Charlie ticket or card, and in return you get another Charlie ticket good for one ride. This is supposed to allow boarding from the unattended doors. This is okay at rush hour I suppose, but it's in general silly. On this trip some guy failed to pay his fare, the relevance of which is that the trolley stopped; the driver made an announcement imploring the guy to cough up; he, to the best of my observation, did not come forward to do so; and I therefore got anxieties about ever getting to the airport. The trip eventually resumed, and after an hour or so I got to Park and then South Station. The Silver Line gets a bad rap on FT. It's really pretty good, despite being little more than a bus that has a dedicated busway for part of its 15-20 minute trip to the airport. I sat as usual in the back, where I intervened with some employees making a hash of an information request by a lost pax. Difficult question: "Where's Delta?" The suggestions were E (from a uniformed US person) and E (from a couple who were nonrevving on US, speaking Continental mergerspeak and sporting bag tags reading "UNITED against outsourcing." I got the poor soul off the bus at Delta, which is really in Terminal A. US2037 BOS DCA 1400 1532 2F I had time for a cuppa at the club, which, despite not having had a bar for years, is fairly pleasant, roomy, and attractive, with helpful staff. Chugged off to the gate, about as far from the club as possible. You'd perhaps expect that the Shuttle gates might be near the club, but no. Our FAs were a hyper FA and a very hypo one, the former greeting all the pax by name, serving multiple drink and snack services, and doing everything right, the other sitting reading on the jumpseat for most of the flight. We got in early, but my decision to go straight home before checking in for my next trip backfired, as as soon as I got to Gallery Place a train broke down, and in a few minutes the station went from almost empty to this swirling cacophany of human obstacles. I gave up and took other means back. By the time I got to a computer to check in, I was #55 in sequence; so much for that upgrade. Next day I allowed extra time for the Metro to do its worst, being once burned and twice shy, so this time of course everything worked like a clock, and I was at BWI early early. Spent an hour at the observation deck, which is back in a dingy phase. SOW, does anyone know whose livery the 737 cross-section is in? Silver with a horizontal black area from a foot above the windows to the base of the windows a yellow stripe directly below the windows two feet more black below that. Possibly made up and a riff on Maryland colors? I stick by my characterization of this airport as unpleasant and nowhere, the vaunted planewatching consisting largely of a boring parade of 737s and smaller. There has been one of those giant Antonov freighters resident here, but of course it mostly sits off in a remote part of the airport. Bill Bateman's makes a decent burger, I admit, but anticipating a square meal on my flight I refrained this time. Moseyed to the pier in plenty of time; security was slow, but that means 12 minutes instead of 5. Checked out Rum Island around 1545 and every 15 minutes thereafter to see if anyone had heeded my drinking emergency MP post. No one that I could see.