I drove to the airport yesterday afternoon even though I wasn’t going anywhere or picking anyone up. I just needed a little inspiration.

I enjoyed a $9 diet Coke and soggy turkey on rye from “The Landing,” the only eatery-type place with tables before you have to show them IDs and tickets and take off your shoes and shit. This area is as far as non-flyers can go, and I have a spectacular view of the pool of people waiting and the river of people arriving.

To me, there are few places better than an airport. I love them for the obvious reasons.

The people on their tippy-toes, peering over scores of bobbing heads, straining to see the face only they recognize. I love the man that was beside me at another table lecturing his wife on American history. He said, “George Washington was totally untrustworthy and had no respect for anybody.” I watched the pilots, heads down, bored with it all. I love being there for the girl with the amazing ass who full-body hugged her boyfriend by wrapping herself around his leg and torso and shoulder. She’d been anxiously bouncing as she waited for him to appear from the mass of people. They kissed for a long time in front of one of their mothers, then he wore her down the escalator like a pair of overalls.

A lady in a purple sweatsuit waved her bejeweled and red-painted hands in the air for almost a minute before the person she was meeting disappeared into a bathroom, never having seen her. She shouted a loud “motherfucker!” right in front of a squawking toddler who was being denied a piece of chocolate cookie time and time again.

A middle-aged couple strolled toward the baggage claim with arms interlocked, both of them wearing leis. They were loaded down with the shopping bags they’d carried on. A tanned, beefy young man in a too-tight t-shirt and do-rag nearly tripped the lady in the lei due to his frantic pacing. He’d been furiously dialing out on his cell phone, to no avail, and furrowing his brow a lot.

Minutes passed, and a bespeckled teenaged redhead greets her girlfriend with a loud smack on the ass. They hugged and chattered loudly about how they were going to get SO FUCKED UP tonight. A squat woman wearing a zebra-print scrunchie informed her husband she hasn’t been able to talk to their son yet that day, and she wasn’t sure which flight he was on. Once again, she clicked disapprovingly, he’d made another assumption.

He smiled at her tenderly, said he was sorry and that he would try to call their son in a few more minutes. Then he kissed her on her forehead, and led her somewhere else.