Translatitudism

Sitting in an airport for any amount of time inevitably gets a person thinking about death. Not even in the existential Barbie kind of way. You’re reminded by every last facet of airport infrastructure that this isn’t what humans were biologically-designed to do, getting high up in the air where the oxygen is thin enough to make you not second guess the $20 Wi-Fi charge. You’ve crossed into a world where terminal is what you seek, so you can depart.

Getting to an airport has its inherent dangers—traffic, airport road rage, a talkative Lyft driver—but the overbearing projection of danger really ramps up when you step inside. There are caution signs everywhere about weaponized toothpaste, batteries, half-full water bottles. Suburban moms reading each line closely trying to determine which of their fellow passengers they’re supposed to snitch on to the authorities. I wondered what they’d think of the titanium plate and screws in my wrist would do to their machines. TSA will act like an underwire bra is a threat to humanity, and here I was smuggling a tool shed in my wrist. Alas, nothing. I could feel less slighted, but I’m essentially being told I’m less dangerous than a shoe.

I bought a small digital camera a couple weeks ago. Like this newsletter, I thought it would goad me into doing things I wouldn’t normally do, like sit still in front of a keyboard on a Sunday night long enough to string as many words together as I could before it felt too obnoxious to hit send, or take a longer route home in hopes of seeing a funny license plate or lawn ornament to snap a blurry picture of. I had a couple of hours in SEA-TAC and came across this, supra, box of baby wipes and a stuffed animal fox. I certainly wouldn’t have thought of looking for this nook behind the gate before I had a camera. Nor would I have thought about writing about it before I decided to sit still in front of a keyboard on a Sunday night and string some words together. And I wondered what it meant that the box existed before I decided to write a newsletter and take more pictures. Seeing it made me chuckle at the surprise of it and a little sad for the baby who spent some time with an uncomfortable butt and no stuffed fox to console them. Is that feeling a function of writing about it or of the box existing?

I also found this trash can at an Edwards Cinema in West Covina, CA. Its meaning feels a little more clear, more certain.

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