I love Airports. They’re always so full of hope. Sure, there’s stress and worry and, literally, baggage. But an airport, first thing in the morning, is a lot like a resaturant kitchen. You know that by the end of the day it will be crowded, trashed, and full of fading acrimony, a place that will suddenly become for a time the worst version of itself, which no one would enter by choice.
But for now, it’s just waiting, a repository of everyones hopes for fun, or family, of coming home, of embraces and the exhaustion of a job well done. We put up with all the garbage because it will be worth it, a sacrifice to our hopes, for our futures. And when the rush of the engines slams you back in your seat, you can feel the exhilaration as our hopes take wing.