I love airports. An airport is an exciting nexus of modern human existence. A coming together of people, people on journeys. Some leaving to see others for a joyful celebration, some doing the same but for a somber purpose. Still more arriving, perhaps wearied from their voyage and excited to meet friends and settle in at their destination. Or excited to finally be in the place to where they anticipated coming.
They're grand testimonies to modern technology, and while some worry and fret over technologies march forward I marvel and embrace what it's brought us. It was 107 years ago that man first lifted himself from the ground with nothing more than ingenuity, effort, and luck. And now we've mastered the craft so well that anyone can do so for the same price as an expensive piece of clothing. We build what are cities unto themselves to support people taking to the skies day by day. That is what an airport is.
The airport I'm at now is perhaps not one of these, being smaller than where I arrive, the Denver International Airport, but it still excites me. Today I played a game with myself. I tried to move slowly, sauntering through this buzzing hive of humanity. Airports usually excite me and I energetically pull keys and shoes off at security checkpoints, forcefully drive forward toward the gate from which a few tons of steel, silicon, and modern aeronautics will carry me to wherever I wish to go in the world, and then arrive somewhat disappointed that I've been so efficient only to arrive early enough to wait. I still arrived early enough that I've spent about an hour and a half waiting, but it's certainly been enjoyable. The air conditioning has deceptively made the sound of a waterfall in the section of seats next to mine. It's rained and a few brilliant blasts of lightning and deep peels of thunder have been mine to enjoy. Most of this time though I've used to read and, now, to write.
