The Uber driver, who never disclosed his name, decided to go on a tangent. Lucky me. Of all the topics he could have chosen—zoo animals, flying cars, how to cook lasagna, for God's sake—he preached to me about the power of stocks. While I continued to loudly fiddle with my headphones, he professed that one must have a pair of balls in order to reap the rewards in the cutthroat world of stocks.

"Yes," "Oh, I see," "That makes sense," "Good luck with that," "Very smart." 

In actuality what I really wanted to say was, "I am actually listening to music right now," "Sorry, I'm on the phone," "I'd rather be in silence." Or maybe even "Shut up!!!" 

The tangent, delightfully educational, promptly ended at the Southern Airlines Express curbside bag drop. 

Southern Airlines? The logo, clearly a relic of the 1950s, was off-putting. After just 30 seconds squinting at the off-brand impression of a pilots name tag (the one they give little kids when they get to see the cockpit), I realized my newfound personal financial advisor had, in fact, deposited me at the wrong terminal. Southwest Airlines was “the next terminal over.” A different terminal. A DIFFERENT TERMINAL. 

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Panic ensued. I am a 20-year-old female. I can do this. I cannot miss another flight. I quickened my pace, rolling my luggage through Terminal 1 with no clear destination, not even sure I was headed in the right direction.  My gut told me to turn right. Right I turned. Luckily, after turning the corner, my intuition led me to a help desk whose edges seemed to shimmer with an illuminating halo. Things were looking up. My pulsating chest began to calm.

Upside down

A faint melody began to play on the overhead speakers. Thunder, Thunder, only happens when it's rainy, players only love you when they are playing. Bum bum bam! The baggage claim carousels began to spin at four times speed. The luggages, overtaken by a magical spell, flew off the ramps and rose onto their wheels. 50 luggages began to roll their way to me, forming two lines. “Players only love you when they are playing,” the luggages swirled around the bag claim, forming  circles, triangles, and pyramids like synchronized swimmers. Flashing lights, red, blue, green, dancing luggages, and fleetwood mac hazed my vision. I chimed in. 

Rightside up 

The agent, a woman in her mid 30’s wearing a red vest over a white button up, appeared knowledgeable of the web of terminals consisting of St. Louis Lambert International Airport, casually directed me to "go up these stairs and take a shuttle to Terminal 2." 

Casually. There is nothing casual about this. Stairs, up, shuttle, bus. I have to drive there?I exited the terminal through sliding doors, turning right onto a ramp. The sun glared in my eyes. Fuck. I forgot my sunglasses. On the sidewalk, my eyes darted to a blur of white and red. A bus. 

Without inquiring about its destination, I sprinted across the sidewalk lugging my carry-on as if it weighed 10 pounds and banged it into a stop sign pole; not even a stop sign can stop me now. I appeared in front of the bus doors, the driver, shocked at my sweaty and panicked presence, opened the door and confirmed the vehicle was headed to terminal 2. "The way you were running, I thought someone was chasing you," he chuckled. I laughed (I think). I sat in the seat closest to him. The bus was empty. Great, maybe my tragic morning would finally come to an end. We continued in silence, driving approximately 8 minutes. I watched incredulously as a loose water bottle filled with a mysterious brown liquid splashed back and forth. Rusted luggage racks squeaked after every pothole. 

Eventually, we creaked to a stop, the bus doors sighing like an exasperated parent as the tires deflated, lowering us to the ground level. "See you later, alligator," the driver tipped his hat towards me.  "Not for a while, crocodile," I replied without even thinking about it. I think we're friends. Or maybe he’s just  friendly. The Southwest logo rose in front of me. I had never been happier to see those three stripes. I’d made it. 

More importantly, I also made my flight. I wanted to scream right then and there, dance on a table and start a flash mob. Flash mobs have a funny way of creating an exclusive environment. Inherently, they  leave out those who weren't “in on it." It’s like that scene from Modern Family, where Cam tried so hard to join the flash mob in which Mitchell was partaking. That ended in a marital fight. Maybe I wanted to start a fight. Something crazy, anything crazy. But no, I waited with the other passengers in line, asking each other our boarding numbers and adjusting accordingly

Upside down 

“All those boarding flight 9807 to Houston welcome aboard and get ready to boogie.” The flight attendant climbed onto her desk, threw off her pink silhouettes into the crowd and started to boogie. In the corner of my eye, a middle aged man squatted on a makeshift bar top. He flung his legs left and right, an Irish jig of sorts, and knocked mimosas and beers to the ground. “Let's get ready to boogie,” he shouted. I turned to the man standing in front of me in an attempt to confirm the absurdity of the situation. His deep green eyes pierced into my soul, unbothered he said “let's boogie.” The orderly lines, deformed and every man, woman, and child began to boogie. A flashmob of sorts. 

Rightside Up 

"What number are you?" a slender, dark haired man of approximately 42 asked. "Oh, I don't care," I responded dryly. In turn, he said, "Oh, but I do." Of course you do. I was number 54. He was 59. Beat that. 

Airports have a funny way of making you vulnerable yet unnoticed at the same time. . I see everyone with their children, their family, their friends, and realize that all these people exist too. What is the obsession with the nuclear family? I supposed it would have been nice to have someone to sit next to, to help with my luggage, to save my seats while I get coffee, or to tell the Uber driver we were at the wrong terminal. But I liked the risk of my seat being taken by someone else. I liked the idea of asking a stranger if I could sit next to them. So,I sat alone, I slept, I broke my nail retrieving my luggage upon arrival. I wandered around for the bathroom, I stood outside wearing headphones (that weren't playing music), and I waited for a car.

 "Welcome to Houston!" the Uber driver said. I replied, "It feels like Ft. Lauderdale." He comments, "Oh, I'm from Tampa, love having a Floridian around." 

Um. I'm from New York. I kept that to myself.