recently read a story* in which the writer likened airports to churches. The idea, as I vaguely recall, was that airports were a place of heightened emotion, sadness and joy and vulnerability, a place where people turned their control and their lives over to someone or something else. The observation struck me because, not particularly religious, I have been known to pray on airplanes. I have rituals I’ve never shared with anyone, not because I’m embarrassed but because to share them might be to rob these rituals of their power. And when I am wobbling around at 30,000+ feet in a flying death trap, mama needs something.

Airports, like churches, offer the minimal in 21st-century comforts. It’s like the past two decades escaped them. They exist on their own time, in their own alternate universe of security checks, duty-free shops, and Brookstone kiosks. Right now, I am sitting across from Pretzel Time, a place I have never seen outside of airports. If it weren’t for airports, would I know the mixed joy of the pretzel dog? And what about Hudson News—who is Hudson, and why must he sell me so many Us Weeklies?

Airports remind me of churches for another reason—there is so much private pain made, somewhat uncomfortably, public. This morning I arrived at LaGuardia for a much-anticipated trip to Austin only to discover my flight, via Chicago, had been hopelessly delayed. To book a new connecting flight, I stood in a long line of huffy fellow passengers, hurling attitude, bitching loudly into their cell phones. The woman behind the counter smiled, letting their anger wash over her like some kind of zen master. When it was my turn, I gave her my best Texan hello. Then she gave me the news—“The next flight will have you in around midnight.”—and I surprised even myself by bursting into tears. I wanted to tell her that I hadn’t gotten any sleep, that I’d been dreaming of cheese enchiladas for days, that I was worried about my cat, that I hated flying, that I had a panel early the next morning. Basically, I wanted to tell her a bunch of shit she didn’t care about. So instead, I said, “Thank you so much!” and went to the bathroom until I stopped leaking. Unlike churches, people in airports aren’t much invested in helping with your problems. There’s not much comfort to be found here. And I guess that’s where Pretzel Time comes in.

*Later, I remembered this was a great nonfiction piece from the McSweeney’s Best Nonrequired Reading Series 2004 about a man living in the Paris airport. I suppose I remembered this, finally, because I had SIX HOURS AT THE CHICAGO AIRPORT to mull it over.