I must be honest. I love the airport. Even as I write this, I am drinking a coffee, watching the people disembark, greet their loved ones, hug, kiss, and laugh. I love watching the people coming from somewhere, going some place. So many people doing so many things.

Businessmen talk on cell phones. Boyfriends carry flowers, grandparents promise hidden wonders in their bags. Video, digital, 35 mm, camera phones all snapping reunion moments. All this and more as Copa Cabbana plays over the intercom.

I love airports.

Skycabs push elderly couples skillfully through the crowd in silver wheel chairs. Custodial personnel undertake the thankless and never-ending task of emptying garbage and cleaning tables.

Floral patterns adorn many well-tanned vacationers, returning from far away places. Groups of teens leave the concourse with backpacks and earphones, their heads bouncing to their own secret beat. Foreign languages of every kind, outfits of every description (and some that defy description) float past.

Sisters giggle. Babies cry. Husbands embrace. Wives caress. Some raise their heads above the crowd, other crane their neck, but most look straight ahead, ready to get off the plane, find their bag and move on to the next part of their journey.

Pilots strut. Stewards scurry. Bartenders stay busy, even when the book stores close and the food court is dark.

And just as one plane empties, and the crowds begin to thin, another gate opens its doors and it all starts again.

I love airports.


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