Stirring Point

I’m somewhere between space and time, lost in a haze of airport purgatory. Crossing oceans, hopping date lines, and bouncing from continent to continent has me tangled like a bucket of old ropes. Modern travel is an absolute miracle and would blow the minds of our ancestors. Its efficiency, though, leaves a bowl of clock soup between the ears. It knocks minutes from their linear path, bending night into morning and breakfast into dinner.

New York to Hong Kong clocks in around 16 hours of flight time. A six-hour layover adds up to 22. From Hong Kong to Xi’an adds another three, for a grand total of 25 hours. Add in security and travel to/from the airport, and that’s when I morph from a human being into a walking cardboard box.

There was a time in our history when flying was magical. Zipping through the sky like Aladdin on a carpet was a dream, and to do it seated, pressurized, and with a toilet made the act feel effortless. Now, the seats feel too small, the food is a salt lick, and the guy next to us smells like a well-worn insole. Age has softened me, but society has softened, too. We soar above oceans in tight BarcaLoungers, watching movies and stuffing our maws. And yet, our jaded minds find a way to complain about the magic. 

When we land in Hong Kong, I shuffle. The hips and ankles are drained of blood and crackle like pork in a cast iron. A 6-hour layover means only one thing: find a patch of floor near an empty corner and sprawl. I doze, then wake, adjust my position, check the time, reach to feel the textured passport cover in my pocket, then slide back into slumber. I know the colors and patterns of terminal carpets from Istanbul to Tokyo. In some, pale blues blend with bone grays, while in others, burnt orange spills into wide swaths of crimson. Textures, though, are universal. Rough indoor/outdoor weaves blanket the cement, keeping the world’s gunk from bleeding between the fibers. Before the industrial vacuum runs through, the surface remains a minefield of crumbs, smashed crackers, and fingernail clippings. Discarded gum, chewed and smushed, stains the carpet like spots on a leopard. The mounds are smeared with the dust of time and cling to the fibers with an iron grip.

The mountains raised me, and when it comes to sleep, I’ll lay my head damn near anywhere. But during a layover, traveling alone keeps real sleep beyond reach. Sleep is a “divorce” from reality. We cut ties, distance ourselves, and mentally check out. Drifting, however, is a “separation,” and it’s a much better fit for the layover. It’s the short leash between us and the waking world—a tethered distance where connection remains but space is integral. The stakes of real sleep on an airport floor are dire, leading to missed flights and possible theft. And while drifting fails to replenish us fully, it keeps us from becoming basket cases half a world away.

I’ve dozed on terminal floors in Ecuador, Spain and Ethiopia. I’ve gone supine in Delhi, Beirut and Casablanca. And once, as penance for missing a flight by my own error, I spent 24 hours in an airport to teach myself a lesson. I’ve caught catnaps and overnights on 6 of the 7 continents, and if there’d been a proper terminal on King George Island in Antarctica, I would have plopped down and snoozed amongst the penguin shit dragged in by the boots of my fellow travelers. 

Why think about? I don’t know. Call it a merit badge I’m proud to have earned. Maybe I admire the tramps of yesteryear too damn much. Maybe the modern world is too easy for some of us, and that’s no good. Or the calluses of my youth are fading from my palms. No matter, the space between takeoff and touchdown is muddled, but it’s time, and time is an opportunity. A few humble hours on the floor are just what I need to remember my fortune.