I'm not one of those writers that writes well at home. I get too distracted by the dust bunnies--killer or not--the yard that needs to be mowed, and the flowers that need to be put to bed.
As many loyal readers may have realized, my favorite place is my local B&N Cafe where the baristas know my order and call me by name.
A number of years ago, I loved the airport. I live just over the river and down a couple of roads from Portland International Airport (PDX)--see Mt. Hood in the distance?
Tuesday morning I took my daughter to the airport at 4 a.m. We had a quick coffee, croissant, and maple bar at the Beaverton Bakery and then she was ready to head to her gate.
I hate what the terrorists have done to our airport experience. Its bad enough that I can't stay with my daughter until she boards, but I can't watch her plane taxi off and take to the air.
I used to come to the airport to write. I loved the hubbub around me--excited faces of those leaving for vacation, the wearied relief of those returning home and the at-the-gate reunions. And after bidding Kristen adieu, I took a table in the almost vacant food court.
Pre 9-11, the food court tables overlooked the tarmac and a window seat was actually a window seat. I could watch the planes arrive and depart, running parallel with the Columbia River until the wings engaged and they took flight.
I imagined exotic locations, feeling alive with hope, wonder, and possibility.
Now, post 9-11, a window seat in the food courts looks over a breezway that borders the tarmac. And vaguely through the well-lit hall and low clouds--I am in Portland, after all--I can see the spector of a plane.
And you know what, it's just not the same.