Airports

Once again I’m on an airplane looking ahead to 18 hours in the air in three legs with 7 hours in three airports. After 34 years of flying I have never grown tired of it. Growing up between worlds there is, nor ever will be a perfect “fit” for me in any culture. But the culture of flight attendants, fuzzy blankets, and food that always promises but never quite delivers – that’s the culture I most understand. Everyone is in transition, coming or going somewhere, no one feels entirely at home, and the language of the person next to you may force awkward moments of gesturing to communicate you need to go to the bathroom. Considering that’s how I feel internally most of the time no matter where I’m at, it’s not surprising that airports are the places I feel most at home. There’s always an expectation of going somewhere and finding adventure, discovering the unexpected, and in-between experiencing the surreal sensation of cruising at 40,000 feet – as if some great giant lifted up the plane, gave the world a spin and set the plane back down again in a new location. It’s a sensation that never fails to inspire dreams and ideas and most hours above the clouds find me scribbling poetic thoughts or strange inventions. I’m not one of those people that waits in great anticipation to discover who their seat-mate will be so they can talk the hours away with a “new friend”, But I do love the diversity of the people around me and seeing the interactions as cultures are forced to integrate on even terms.

The flight attendant is closing the overhead bins and the crew chief is giving us the flight plan. The sun set hours ago over the east African plains, but I’m not particularly tired. I have my methods for combatting jet lag and right now it involves creative thought. But first, it’s time for lift-off.