As my dry eyes and stiff knees let a lifetime of flying wash over them, things seem to go back to normal. I fumble down the narrow, steel pathway from Plane to Arrivals; I hear a fresh faced worker saying ‘No English’. The tiny hallway of Shannon airport has grown 50 ft across, and every grey wall has bent into a soft, translucent curve. Five people are now Fifty. Granuals of coffee simmer in the air and take over my airways as I shift through. Trump is threatening Amazon on the TVs, and I realise that a distant worry has now become a local threat. I see every sign, every lift, every floor, every being walking back and forth and confusion turns into epiphany.
It’s JFK. I’m in JFK.