The terminal smelled like coffee, disinfectant, and impatience.
That was the first thing I noticed as we stood near the security checkpoint at Hartsfield–Jackson, watching people rush past us with rolling suitcases and half-finished drinks. The fluorescent lights overhead were too bright, flattening everything into harsh clarity. A TV mounted near the ceiling murmured about traffic on I-85 and a storm system moving east, the volume just low enough to fade into background noise.Continue reading…
Air Travel
