• James Eric Fristad

Enroute: exciting ennui

Waiting in Denver, between flights. And then waiting some more, hours more. We're upstairs in a kind of mezzanine area, where old passenger-boarding-gate chairs spend their declining years.

None of the Velveteen Rabbit's mystical nostalgia lingers here, I quickly add


I don't think it is less noisy, up in this section. Sounds rise and echo freely among hard ceiling surfaces. (And I fear that screening out pulsating ambient droning is a skill I shall likely never develop.) But up here almost nobody is shuffling around. Best entertainment is watching little kids ride the escalators. When you are three or four, stepping onto those ever-moving, grooved steel flats, continually growing into steps that glide upward before getting squished to pass under that steel comb stretching across the chute's top ...is a very big deal indeed. And this picture from a moment ago conveys part of our present story as well.

Identical bottles lined up, silently, each dressed-up surface boasting too many calories filling out its rounded curves. Waiting for the next thing. The sort you generally see at airports.


I could show Michele napping next to me, sitting upright. But won't. Because that is normal for folk like us who feel kinda --tada ...

Carpetish ...walked on. Not by people but by marching time making its way through our maze of too many needfuls. So, two blessed hours of nitey-nite for Eric and maybe a third hour for M. But we ARE excited about having got as far as Denver and eventually arriving in Miami. By way of Nashville.


Yawn.

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