I pulled off the freeway, headed for the airport, but stopping to buy gas. Still dark, I pre-paid for my fuel at the rarest of places, a non-corporate gas station. The man sold the gas while the woman sold Honduran breakfast and lunch items to airport workers of Central American origin, and fellow travelers such as myself. Air travel may not be the luxury of the past, but it is still about "haves" going somewhere with the help of others.
My phone's Google Maps recommended a 3 mile route to the airport by some side streets. 4th street to 34th to fuel blvd. to terminal blvd. with lots of forced turns. At one point a plane flew really overhead. I could smell it. And then up a short and steep ramp and I was there, terminal A on my left. A shortcut of wonder.
Sadly the way of the world is elsewhere. Since I came in so perfectly, I needed to round the entire four terminal complex to get back to the rental car return. Yet the pleasure of returning my land yacht, another glorious human artifact, in the early morning was enough compensation.
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