This is the new stuff. The truck-stop colonized by the urbanites.
The atrium roof is appealing. You look up a lot. The breakfast bar is loud. The ambience is ritalin-driven. The food is laced with peanut-butter, bacon, and cheese. Cosmopolitan effort. And we feel vey cosmopolitan here. Situated. Groomed. Boys and girls bathrooms, the design ripped from the metro airport. Stainless steel baby changing platform. A common washing space, like a circular urinal. Or font. Or locker rooms. An after-bacon rendezvous. We first held hands in the over-spray at the breakfast bar. A grandparent playlist: Bowie as Ziggy, Blind Faith, Led Zeppelin II. No one’s listening. They are missing the better irony of the morning. Looking up into the atrium’s blue sky.
Simonson’s beats the space for a relaxing breakfast, formica and tippy tables. Top of the heap for desperation.
Getting out was a reprieve. Quieter outside than in. Like leaving a snow-mobile factory for a summer’s day.
