April 7, 2024

I ride to the airport in style. I’m going to Texas. My Lyft driver is a delight, a gentleman from Ecuador who has invested in bright red interior detailing and upholstery. I compliment him on his selection.

La Guardia — terminal B — home of one of the most magnificent fountains.

I’ve fashioned myself the kind of outfit I would rather not be seen in, but I take my seat carelessly, front row, a little cafe table and chairs to watch the fountain do its thing. Little yellow cabs are projected on the streams of water. It spits out letters. M-A-N-H-A-T-T-A-N. B-R-O-N-X.

And what a delight, I’m able to impromptu arrange a meet up right in front of this very water feature with my friend B. A hug in an airport is worth so much.

B is stuck in airport hell, she’s been bouncing between JFK terminals since the early morning and (in order to reach her destination) has been forced to make her way all the way to LGA, but we’re both able to make it out of NYC and into the air by 5PM.

Buckled in, I close my eyes. I’m actually flying. The take off usually puts me to sleep.