Isn’t it odd that “air travel” usually means long days with little to no contact with outside air?
I travel enough to find airports familiar, but not enough to have stopped marveling at them. Restaurants, bars, shops, massage chairs, meditation rooms, dog walking turf squares with fake fire hydrants, children’s play areas, grand, open atria flanked by soaring glass panels and ocean sweeps of shiny-tiled concourse, spouting fountains, towering artwork – air hubs are like giant malls, city islands constructed in a sea of concrete, asphalt, and roadways.
I wonder if any writer has ever pitched a story idea of extended living in air-hub world. If you traveled first class and could sleep on planes, you could live for months without ever leaving security. Or maybe you’d allow yourself a departure through the security gates as long as you stayed in a contiguous hotel, connected to the air terminal through glass-covered bridges.
When I stepped onto the Bangor plane in Philadelphia this afternoon, there was a gap between the jet bridge and the plane, wide enough for me to feel the movement of air, touch the raindrops on the hull, breathe outdoor air, fuel-laced though it may have been. I had to pause, take a breath before my re-immersion into manufactured atmosphere. Perhaps that air-hub marathon would be a cool story, but I guess I don’t want to be the one to write it.
My 60th year in 60,000 words
Day 50: 233 words, TOTAL = 7609; 52,391 remaining
Robin Clifford Wood is an award-winning author, poet, and writing teacher. She lives in central Maine with her husband, loves to be outdoors, and enjoys ever-expanding horizons through her children, grandchildren, and granddogs.