I like airports. This is a good thing, since I seem to be spending more and more time in them.
I arrive early, often very early. I have a meal, I watch people, and I write. Often I chat with one group and then another, kind of like Forrest Gump on his bus bench.
Why? I like a quiet transition time as I move from one place to another. I hate rushing. I aim for serenity.
I’ve been in an out of the Miami airport a number of times in the last fourteen months or so because there are no direct flights from Houston down to the parts of the Caribbean I’ve visited.
I would have to say that the airport code MIA is, well, interesting. But I’ve found it a pleasant airport — plenty of shopping and restaurants, good way-finding, and a distinctive decor. The people are nice. I like nice people.
When I was having lunch at the Miami airport this morning, I saw myself on my way back from Barbados; I was tired — it was just after that Atlantic crossing. Then I saw myself following my sister on our way down to our first cruise on Royal Clipper. Not long afterwards, I saw myself on the way to Sint Maarten — I had just bought those Ray-bans that I didn’t know I was about to lose on the floor of the airplane.
I believe that airports are wormholes.
Well, really, I think all places are wormholes, but the ones we live in have so many tracings back and forth we often don’t see particular memories with such clarity. Think of it as comparing a Jackson Pollock painting to a Picasso line drawing . . .
So, I am here with my line tracings in and out of MIA.
It may be time for a margarita . . .
Signing off — Ann
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