Airports

There’s just something about the airport. Maybe it’s that sweet mix of relief and heartbreak that means I'm going home again, or the fear and excitement of finding myself en route to somewhere new.

There's that few-hour span where I'm in limbo, leaving the place I came from in exchange for where I'm going. It's like the summer before high school and college, the commercial break before the next segment of my life. 

After being assaulted by the x-ray machine, barefoot and vulnerable as my passport is scrutinized and my water bottle is emptied, I'm free to join the airtight space on the other side of the tunnel. In the mix of complete safety among thousands of bustling travelers, there's an overwhelming feeling of anonymity.

At the airport I could be anywhere in the world; each is its own unincorporated space. They’re hubs placed on the outskirts of town, housing hoards of people from every dot on the map. Itineraries have brought so many of us together, and there's beauty in knowing we won’t stay in the same place for long.

Businessmen in suits carry briefcases and smart phones. They have traveling down to a science. Children with tiny suitcases adorned with Nemo and Dora are moved to the front of the line.

Backpackers with dirty faces and unwashed hair swap stories before nestling in a makeshift bed otherwise known as the floor. Flight attendants with their starched uniforms walk in a group, full of purpose while their silk scarves float through the stale air.

Money emits from the bottom floor machines as currency from every culture is converted, conformed to the new place it will economically support.

As we came together, we’ll leave together, forgetting we were ever in the same place.