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7 Hours

7 Hours

Here we go! Once again I find myself at an airport bar, drinking a dark lager and surrounded completely by strangers.  I think airport bars are my favourite type of bar.  You can't really have locals, and you always meet the most curious people.

You never have to exchange names, but you can completely open up and have the most profound conversations because you know you'll never see that person again.

For instance, I just had an hour long conversation with a woman from Bosnia, who works as a translator in a group home in Connecticut.  We didn't exchange names until she got up to leave, and yet it's not necessarily the person, but their story that resonates with us.  Her love of caring for those who can't take care of themselves takes me back to when I was a camp leader at a camp for individuals with disabilities. 

I've met a war veteran, a pilot, a special education teacher.  I will never see these individuals again, but in a brief moment in time, they've had such an impact on me.  

I won't' lie I stopped writing this to talk to a man coming home from Switzerland.  What a conversation!  He reminded me of my cousin with his calm, non-reactive demeanor.  We discussed careers, marriage, and the definition of happiness; the subjectivity of freedom of choice and the moral behind it, the mysteries of woman and the undeniable beauty.  And the best part? I shook his hand, and he walked away.  

I feel a growing favoritism in writing this in real-time, so to speak.  All the events of these happenings are occurring within a seven hour layover in the Dullas-Washington airport, thirty minutes outside the city.  And even in a month, or a year, these seven hours will loose their authenticity, as they become replaced with more strangers in more airport bars having new and philosophically random conversations.  I take a healthy swig of my Old Bust Head Chukker pilsner and take a deep breath.

Onto the third pit stop in, wherever I am, I sit down, and strike up a conversation with a heavily tattooed young man.  And for the next two hours we talk scotch, jobs, traveling, where we would live and where in this world we would be happy.  He was on his way to have an interview for a high up position with Amazon, go figure eh. 

I look around as people line up to board the plane that isn't yet ready for them, so hell-bent on the destination and not the journey.  The past seven hours have done more for me than these unconscious, sweat pant wearing souls could ever comprehend, just drones heading to the next endpoint.  

Anitta, Caleb, and Jeff.  Three total strangers who had no obligation whatsoever to have a conversation with me.  Yet, spent hours talking and discussing the fundamental aspects of our existence, which is, well what? That everything is temporary?  That women will forever be a mystery to the minds of man? That Trump has made it this far in the elections? That our names hold no meaning except for what we associate with them? That the only thing we truly have is right now? Those are questions for the next lonely soul at the next airport bar, too bored to not have a conversation with me.  

-The Cloud Watcher-

Follow the Water
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Friday, 22 June 2018
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