Airports

Solitary airport corners. Hours spent next to outlets on slow wi-fi connections.

This is what I want my life to be full of.

Stagnant pauses between takeoffs and landings to differentiate each chapter from the next. Each new experience from the last.

A lot of waiting. A lot of napping next to strangers. A lot of brief moments of interaction strung together by familiar experiences against a backdrop of complete anonymity.

I spend three hours at Charlotte International airport. On my way to Nevada with a New York state ID in my wallet. Not belonging to anywhere.

In my St. Johns, Ore. shirt, I buy a '90s-style Carolina Panthers tee. Little boys, size Large.

These places don't belong to me. And I don't belong to them. I just belong to the moment.

The moment I spend eating a chicken caesar sandwich in a wooden rocking chair in a giant airport terminal a few miles from a tiny cluster of 30-story buildings that make up the downtown of a small 700,000-person city.

I never noticed the Long Island accent until I went to Oregon for 10 weeks. I hear it in every word now.

-- Carolina Hidalgo