I'm flying back East for the first time in two years. I have an early flight, so I shoulder my duffel bag and head down the hill on my scooter to catch the train to the airport. Paranoid about missing my flight, I catch the first train of the day, which arrives a little before four in the morning. I'm the only passenger for a number of stops, at which point a skinny figure in a hoodie slipss on and sits somewhere behind me. After a few minutes they start to moan; quietly at first, then louder. It's a woman's voice. "Oh god," she says. Oh god. Oh my god. Oh. Oh. Oh god. Oh yes. Oh my god. Oh my fucking god. Oh god." I resist the urge to turn around for a long time and when I finally do, the compartment is empty.
As we move through the sleeping city, the train fills up with transients, some with bikes or sacks of cans. They stumble on and promptly fall asleep. At the end of the line, a security guard gets on and wakes them up. "Need to wake up and get off here," he says. "You can get back on in a few minutes but I need to clear the car. New rules." The men ignore him then slowly begin to rouse themselves and leave the train, milling about on the platform until they're allowed to get back in and continue their slumber.
The airport is under construction and people are running every which way trying to figure out which way they're supposed to be going. It's more people than I've seen since the start of the pandemic and it's completely overwhelming. I check my bag and get in line. People keep butting in front of me, and I keep politely informing them of this fact. Every one of them stares at me as if I'm crazy. In the middle of the concourse is a corral where a guard is walking a large spotted hound back and forth, back and forth. They're having people line up two by two and march shoulder to shoulder through the corral as the guard walks his dog in front of and behind them. They are pulling some people aside afterwards and leading When I get there I get paired up with a guy wearing a t-shirt with a picture of Rasputin on it. He carries a guitar case with the words "THIS IS NOT A GUN" written on tape across it. I tell him I like his shirt and he ignores me as we pass through the corral together.
The flight is uneventful. I have a five hour layover at Ohare, which is formed of seemingly endless miles of very narrow corridors. I roll up and down them looking for a place to eat, but all they have are chain restaurants like Chili's. I finally find a place that sells tortas. The tiny, ancient Mexican woman at the counter mangles my order but the food ends up being delicious anyways. Towering above a booth for the history museum is a full size Brachiosaurus skeleton. Across its face is a surgical mask the size of a tent. A sign at its feet reads "Look up! Look up!"
Every time I look at the departure board it lists a different gate for my plane, so I park myself in a central spot in case I need to move quickly and spend the five hours watching people. After being so isolated for so long, it's a shock to see so many people. The majority of people I see in my daily life are either museum patrons or people living on the street. I find the sheer variety of shapes and colors and faces stimulating but also exhausting. After a while they all start to blur together into one swiftly-moving mass.
My second flight only takes a few hours on a small jet. It takes me right to Allentown, which I planned so I could avoid the hellish drive from Philly or, even worse, Newark. I've only landed at this airport once, sixteen years ago, during my first trip home after moving out West. It's a sleepy little place with only a handful of gates. I call my mom as I'm waiting for one of the two luggage carousels to churn into motion. I'm relieved but somewhat stunned to be here, on the ground, surrounded by walls covered with ads for familiar local businesses... Service Electric Television, Channel 69 News, Just Born Quality Confections... it's both comforting and jarring as I feel my brain trying to adjust, overlaying these images of my Pennsylvania past with those of my more recent life in Oregon. Between these two poles rushes the river of faces and bodies in the airport, the stream of humanity which I'm a part of but feel so separate from. I hoist my bag and wheel outside to greet my folks just as they pull up to the curb.
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