January 30, 2016:
The agitated man is not happy with his cell phone. Bent in half inside his seat, he raises his voice, curses in Farsi, expresses his discontent with cartoonish faces beneath bushy black eyebrows.
Tired, lost-looking travelers stop and stand practically on my toes, asses in my face, adjusting their bags or shoelaces or pocket contents. It's interesting to speculate how this prominent seat, very obvious and unmistakable, occupied by this very obvious tall unmistakable gray-haired author, becomes invisible in traffic to so many pedestrians, who invade the space again and again in identical ways.
Missus Minidress cradles her handbag as she might a baby, close to her breast. The Cynical Twins stand next to my bag, snickering, to pop a selfie. Yawning lady yawns. Gate announcements are inaudible over the very loud moving walkways. I think we're boarding now.