I’m in the airport. I don’t want to be here. I long to be elsewhere - outside the security lines, in the city, or back on the flight line where everyone knew I knew what was going on. Here, they treat me like just another passenger who doesn’t understand the concept of hot brakes or why we don’t want to take off into a SIGMET. Here, I’m trapped behind the terminal’s glass walls, miles away from places where I can drop my bags and explore a museum. Here, the cavernous spaces echo with the slap of flip-flops and rattle of suitcase wheels on the tiled floor, the CNN newscaster’s voice repeating the latest headlines, the recorded security announcements, the live gate announcements, the babble of people who are inexplicably okay with me overhearing their private cell phone conversation... Here, I have hours to kill because I didn’t know that, today, TSA agents were going to be efficient rather than disinterested. What do I do? Eat an unnecessary meal so I can use the restaurant’s wi-fi? Wait for a charging station to open up so I can pounce on it and plug in my computer and phone? Try to read a book with one foot wrapped around my carry-on, as the building vibrates and the layers of noise multiply? Spend all my time texting the people in the city I just left (the one barely visible beyond the jetway) and the ones in the city I’m trying vainly to get to? Such boredom. Such malaise. Such a difference from last weekend’s travel.
Last weekend, I travelled with a friend to places I loved.
Last weekend, the journey was as important as the destination.
Last weekend, we drove.
