As far as airport experiences go, I’ve had a fair share. This past summer I had a six hour layover with an additional two hour delay, fused with the sudden grip of traveling alone. I’ve seen a stunning quantity of Hudson booksellers and cheap Asian fast food restaurants. I nearly missed a flight once, stumbling on board with thirty seconds to spare before departure. Two years ago I managed to break my personal mile record (6:35) while running through terminals in Schiphol, with a backpack, luggage, boots, the whole shebang.
All that considered, I do have a favorite (despite a dislike toward flying, I’ve grown fond of airports and the rare flower shops you find in the tiny ones). Not the time I saw a woman wheeled off in a makeshift luggage-cart ambulance. Not when I found a huge stationery store in Germany (mind-blowing, though). It was at the Indianapolis Airport, 3AM in the morning, and I had gotten off a red-eye flight. I found a Starbucks, watched an episode of Orphan Black, read The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy in two hours, noticed the sunrise from that great glass wall, then hopped on a bus that was empty save for the driver and a university student.
I wasn’t tired. Quiet and alone, yes, but for a moment it had felt like I’d broken out of the crossroads feeling, the one where you’re in a place but also not anywhere. Hard to describe. Good vibes. It was nice, a Vonnegut kind of nice.