Far From Home

I don’t get out much. I mean, between the appointments, errands, outings, and miscellaneous other that draw me out of the house on a regular basis, yes, I do get out of the house, but that’s not really what I mean.

After an eventful flight from Seattle to Chicago during which a TSA agent told me I have a nice, positive energy about me and a comically insufferable woman told me, loudly, that I was stupid for lugging a carry on through the airport, I’m now sitting down, drinking white wine out of a plastic cup, and marveling over how very little I know of the world.

I keep trying to nail down what it is about this airport that strikes me as so essentially different from my home airport and coming up short. People in Chicago are, so far as I can tell, more colorful maybe? I don’t mean in a racial sense, it’s their clothes or the way they walk in a crowd. I don’t know. All I know is that this very definitely isn’t home, I can feel that on a base level, and it’s reinforcing over and again how little I know of the world outside my door.

I have to laugh. If the airport terminal of Chicago is giving me much to chew on, how much more is New York City, the greatest city on Earth, going to absolutely blow my mind?

I can’t wait. I may just squeal when those looming skyscrapers creep into view outside the plane windows. Fair warning.

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