An airport after 10 p.m. is a tired looking place. The neon lighting overhead flatters no one and the collective fatigue at that late hour can be seen in the faces of passengers and crew alike.

But at LAX in California there can be diversions - Mr. T over there in arrivals, Chicago Bulls basketball legend Scottie Pippen in the men's room and the game show host from Slumdog Millionaire sitting six seats over in the waiting area.

Those fellows were the celebrities we recognized as we waited for our delayed return flight after attending niece Carrie and new husband Joey's wedding in Burbank.

The "we" included granddaughter Julia on her second birthday. And Julia kept us on our toes.

Since sleep seemed out of the question for Julia, despite the late hour, she and I did a lot of walking and watching. The tall window walls of the airport terminal render everything on the outside a stage. Ordinary goings on outside become the production and Julia and I constituted the audience.

Julia can say "airplane" and "bus" and so we identified what seemed at that hour to be 900 plus of those objects - some were counted and identified twice to be sure. And so while activity was calming to Julia, inactivity was not - and we just kept moving. Just what was going to go on for the fourhour flight looming ahead with this sleep deprived two-year-old - that seemed not to be just a question, it seemed ominous.

It turned out that Julia was not the one to worry about on our flight home.

She slept.

The man seated next to me coughed.

He coughed and coughed and acted weird. Never once did he offer up an apology or a simple "excuse me," let alone an explanation. He held a magazine by both hands at arms length away, a large white handkerchief was wrapped around one hand and the headline on the newspaper in my hand warned of pandemic flu.

I used to be much more of a complainer. I didn't think twice about seeking somebody out to hear my gripe. No more, though. These days I mostly vote with my feet. When the cashiers get too grumpy or the helpers turn hostile, I just don't go back. It's much easier that way. Companies say they want feedback from consumers, but I don't find that to be really true.

But this was a little much, and Julia was seated sleeping in the aisle in front of us.

I sought out the stewardess. And I hit the jackpot. She was the most understanding, most tactful lady ever assigned the unpleasant task of quizzing an odd coughing passenger.

In no time whatsoever, the coughing man was seated by himself, the lights were dimmed and we were headed home.

Weddings are wonderful vehicles for bringing families together. This one was no exception. So there were picnics and fiestas and the reception itself, moments to embrace those close and dear to you and to meet those newly admitted into the enlarged circle that forms when families grow and intersect.

During an unscheduled afternoon we rented the smoky black Lincoln stretch limo for the star tour of Beverly Hills. There's no doubt in my mind that we actually got within 18-feet of Dr. Phil's cleaning lady. Apparently she doesn't give autographs.

We toured around the man-made beauty of a desert tamed, irrigated and made lush by toil and imagination. And just like a marriage, it seemed like a moment to celebrate the possibilities of something grand and wonderful to come.