Charlotte to Logan

I love the unique social experiment of airport travel.

I love that wine bars open at 8:30AM and that the local tequilaria pours its first margaritas at 9... in the morning.  Tequila, afterall, makes the world go 'round.  And planes go up.

I love the lines at Starbucks; the women (guilty) who block bathroom mirrors at either end of their trips for the sole purpose of primping, pampering, and preparing.

I love the unusual dexterity and spectacular acrobatics born of dodging errant suitcases and overloaded carry-ons.

I love the Eastern European woman who cleans the bathroom and hawks compliments for tips- "Hello Pretty Lady," "So beautiful, Pretty Lady."

I love the inevitable mad dash from Gate X to Gate Y to make the connecting flight to Padukah, KY, and the Asian super-punk on the same flight (on every flight, really) for who-knows-what-reason.

I love the ideas of arrivals and departures- what better way to consider life?  Comings and goings.

I love the security agents- I always attempt to be inappropriately cordial to them.  They don't know what to make of unexpected niceness.

I love the people who drive the handicap trolley.  They are always so jolly.

I love that everyone watches everyone else and eavesdropping is proudly committed by all.

I love the anticipation.  And at the risk of sounding like a tag line from Love Actually, I love the anticipation most of all.

It is a triumphant thing- to see the giddiness on the faces of fellow travelers- the impatience to get where they are going to do what they will do and see who they will see.  What a beautiful image of fulfillment.

Everyone has a story.  And nowhere is that more obvious, nowhere are those stories more present, than in the airport.