Back in the glorious humidity of South Florida, and in a more charitable frame of mind as a result, I can’t help but feel that I’ve been too harsh on old Cleveland. Cold, gray, depressing old Cleveland.

I will say this for the city: It was terribly considerate of the Greater Cleveland Regional Transit Authority to provide a direct rail link between the airport and my hotel. The view on the rail corridor might not convince the first-time visitor that a dynamic city awaits at the end of their journey, but that’s only because a dynamic city does not await at the end of their journey. Nevertheless, the train was perhaps the highlight of the trip because I am nothing if not incredibly cheap. The savings achieved by eschewing two expensive cab rides were literally in the range of dozens of dollars.

Speaking of travel, flying into Palm Beach International is an amazingly consistent experience, regardless of your city of departure. You can safely skip checking your ticket or the airport boards for your gate information, for example. Instead, simply follow any electric cart with at least five elderly passengers. They are flying into PBI, likely on their way to Boynton Beach. This is an immutable law of the universe.

Alternately, you may simply wander the terminal until coming upon the gate, and there will be only one, with no fewer than 12 wheelchair-bound passengers hitched up. Lest you think I unfairly stereotype the elderly, let me point out that these wheelchair-bound travelers need not be old at all. Indeed, many wheelchair travelers headed to Palm Beach County are merely overweight or prematurely decrepit on account of their extreme sedentary lifestyle. What attracts these maddening, joyless, sweaty people to our sunny little corner of the world? Me. They know how much they annoy me, and they conspire to ruin my every airline experience with their unreasonable demands and general vileness.

But, really, Palm Beach County is a lovely place.