an interstitial place

ORD is one of those modern interstitial places, neither here nor anywhere in particular. Not Chicago, not Illinois, barely in the USA; merely somewhere in between, unspecified. Drone of milling passengers, rattle of wheeled cases, subliminal rumbling of takeoff under power, the pervasive hint of jet fuel; these are the peripheral notes of this placeless place.

I keep hearing Warren's sparrows in the thickets of lifelike ficus trees. Hey, isn't that a Nokia waltz?

It's cold here. I know because a bit of chill air seeped into the jetway tunnel as we disembarked the plane. I'm dressed for Bay Area spring, Brazilian summer. Dark, cloudy, cold is an unexpected intrusion, a midwestern oeuvre encroaching from beyond the sealed enclosure of the flight plan.

Body says it's hungry. What time is it now? Almost 5pm? Or 7? Or is it 10? Better go with destination time, so 10 it is. Anyone for a spot of pizza and beer? Then, with any luck, a short and fitful sleep over Panama before dropping down into the sub-tropical void...