Ah, Terminal 5. It is somehow always raining or freezing when you make the four-avenue trek from the nearest subway station to this ill-placed big room, but tucked away on its uppermost balcony is a piss haven as secretive as Platform 9 3/4. It almost pains me to disclose, but duty calls: Head up to the third-floor bar, where you’ll enjoy minimal wait times for whiskey and feel like doyen of the gig as you look down on the peasants in the pit. When you need quick relief, stride confidently past the bar toward the farthest back wall. Just to your left, behold, a suite of at least a dozen empty bathroom stalls, line-free, with an attendant on duty to accept your hefty, gracious tips for guarding such a sacred wing. Stretch, refresh, head back downstairs, and try not to think about squeezing out through that inexplicably long and narrow hallway toward the unavoidable post-show crush. (No matter how early you convince yourself to skip out, sixty people have opted to beat you, aimlessly texting their friends to meet them by the exit, well aware that their friends do not have service, because they also do not have service.)
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