Concourse A. Detroit

After a night constructed of tosses and turns, I am slowly opening my eyes to the day with the help of a tall Americano. Even though I am inside (Concourse A at the Detroit airport, where the streamlined, glossy cherry-red tram that reminds me of nailpolish passes overhead to my right in 10-minute cycles), I have just shared a tiny bit of scone with the bird that was staring at me as it perched over on the row of seats a few feet away. There are a surprising number of birds in here. I noticed it yesterday as I was walking to the airport shuttle. This morning, I wonder once again if some of them spend their entire lives inside this airport, never experiencing the world outside. I am thinking about the alter-ego of this place: a universe of birds, avian perches, homes, territories, mating rituals. As humans rush back and forth completely unaware, instead simply arriving, departing, scurrying for their planes and doing all their human things.

My plane to Maine, which I anticipate actually being on today, leaves from Concourse C, but I am hanging out here for awhile because it's a vast, open space with more light than the concourses below. There are international flights up here: people headed to Korea, Japan, Belize, China. Just hearing the announcements in Japanese are making me homesick for Japan, even though I never LIVED there, but immediately felt at home on my first trip. Since yesterday, I have had fantasies of being a travel writer (ok: I'm lying. I've had this thought many times over the years, so yesterday wasn't the first time). Talk about a fantasy career! I love travel. I love the being caught off guard, having to go with the flow of it: the random conversations you have with people you will never see again, the opportunity to make a few memories in a place that will join the pile of all those anonymous, often look-alike restaurants, bars, and hotels you've ever been. Even while certain details of each one will never let you go.

There are four birds circling overhead now. At least 100 feet above, flying in and out of the open spaces between the corrugated, arced panels that stretch over the terminal in contemporary buttressed fashion. The birds are going about their day, and I am finally shedding the exhaustion of strange sleep. And disruptive dreams of being paged at the airport and being accosted by giant centipedes. The centipede dreams were the echo of the real centipede that decided to say hello when I was in the dirty hotel bathroom at 2:00 a.m. The hotel seemed like it had the potential for bugs. And, indeed, it lived up to this promise quite well.

Now. Time to gather my things again and head to Concourse C. And a rainy day in Maine!