Category Archives: Writing

There is regular, comfortable early. There is ongoing civilization-wide disaster early. And then there is the number of hours early I was to O’Hare today. I thought the unreasonably complicated method for parking my car, longterm-ish and downtown-ish, with a couple mile walk and train ride, would pit me against the clock in a battle of armies Sun Tzu would look twice at before prognosticating upon. Instead, I’ve made my way from the least of the M gates to the greatest enough times to watch Polish Airways flights take off, Indian Airways flight attendants find their way off the plane last, and every strolling gait that humans operate, not to mention watching people watching Italy take out England in a final on penalties. I think deep down I wanted to experience the totality of a travel medium that I’ve missed for too long for as long as I could stand it. Airports are a gathering place unlike almost any other; necessity brings people together in a way only perhaps emergency rooms can compete with, with matching relative urgency. Add the sidelong glances at masks not covering noses, masks draped over one ear, and long-cooling cups of coffee sitting nearby as an excuse to keep the mask in the lap, and all the associated internal dialogue, and I’ve had myself an entertaining back and forth and back. Security took four minutes, and that one way stroll led me right to this intestine with only one orifice eventually to open to me. I’ve sat, written poems, sent emails. And still had time to make more laps, to see both the flights to Austria and those to Phoenix, and the immense human similarities across this primarily international terminal. Looking over and through my glasses, doing what I can to keep from totally fogging out, I’ve met the eyes of everyone who would meet mine, handshakes sometimes clammy and hesitant, sometimes confident and challenging. I’ve spun around the question of whether I’ll be entering actual France and therefore be denied boarding, as I don’t have a certain test result to augment the form that will get me into the more forgiving European country at the end of this single rock-skipping pond bounce. Every gait known to people, every look of chagrin and bemusement. Every type of noise-altering head-connected sound device. Liminality incarnate, linoleum and all. Artificially noisy electric carts maneuvering around all the gaits. Saunters in sandals. Wriggles in loafers. Confidently hunched shoulders. Disciplined straight backs with backpacks askew. The slow walk of those who know they don’t have anywhere else to be. The purposeful suitcase drag of the one who wants to at least glimpse the number of the orifice where the cycle will be broken. Crossed legs, at every angle. Airports are a gymnastics association of leg crossing; pay your dues and cell phone bill and get acrobatic. A few chairs facing out the windows and a few windows facing out to nothing. Stairwells above the ceiling. The superstructure of an airport is unseen. One gets the impression that if one peeled away the floorboards in any place, there would not only be a tangle of wires and tubes, but also a hundred people purposefully driving tiny vehicles with various tubes and wires sticking out of them. One is self-conscious at an airport, and also presumptuous. There is the feeling of anticipation of the extreme vulnerability that entering high altitudes offers, creating seatmate friendships, involuntary tears during banal movies, and the sense that a single sip of whiskey and a bite of a stale cracker would make the face of God appear in the clouds out the window. Purgatory with an elevator to heaven with a countdown timer. Will your ticket be accepted? Normally not a question, but during this civilization-wide disruption, one expects to have one’s passport considered very carefully. And also to see oneself as “one” rather than I, until I am comfortably seated in a seat with my little backpack napping at my feet. It looks like I have time for four more laps. One hopes for more eye contact at varied gaits.