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Airports R not me, see.  That isn’t to say I think airports are you.  I’m just saying that, try as I might, try as I am zen-like in my approach to the airport experience, even during the disrobing section of the enterprise, try as I might remain cool and calm by doing my crossword puzzles, taking those strolls down the long, crowded corridors, pulling my laptop laden carry-on along with me, using the angry rest rooms which flush the toilet for you even before you are finished, with sinks that may or may not emit water, no matter how politely you hold your hands underneath the spigot, aligned perfectly to the little laser beam that should tell the faucet you are indeed there, eating that raisin bagel sans cream cheese, although sometimes I crack and order up a cinnabon with extra sauce, not drinking that huge bottle of Evian I’m saving for the plane, and above all, spending time people watching, because there certainly are thousands of people to watch, and because people watching is supposed to be utterly fascinating, but let me tell you people watching isn’t fascinating, not at the airport, because all those people are doing exactly the same thing you are doing, with varying degrees of success, largely having to do with wether or not they are traveling with children, try as I might, my heart sinks way down low every time I check my bag at the curb and enter in through those sliding doors.

But then?  The raison d’etre of airports in the first place?  Why, like magic,  the airport survivor is whisked…well sort of…onto the plane, urged to enjoy the flight, and then flown without further ado to a far away place, in a ridiculously quick and efficient amount of time.

Airports, actually, should be featured on my Christmas cards.

 

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