*Note from the editor
Still working on some interviews, got a guest post soon, and another music post. This was one of my first unfinished drafts of chapter one that I wrote last summer. Pretty shitty, but that’s what first drafts are for! Be back soon.
Damn, I love the taste of highballs.
In my past, I’ve learned that what a person drinks alone says quite a lot about them. Beer is a poor man’s numbing aid that demand peace in times of unending dissatisfaction. Tequila is chaos setting anguished memories ablaze in a wildfire. Wines and spirits courted oblivion, and oh how we desperately craved it. But highballs are none of those. A drink of vodka and orange juice is simple and earnest. Made up of one part elixir and two parts paradise, highballs bring all the feelings of warmth without withering away the senses. There is no rush to finish a glass, no overwhelming desire to cease bitterness or extinguish despair. No. A highball is for reminiscing.
After all, there isn’t much to do while waiting for a late flight in an empty airport but reminisce anyway. Drink in hand, I walk through the empty halls and up escalators mulling over everything that had occurred over the course of my life. I had only ever been here once before as a child to see off an aunt that I wasn’t too familiar with. Since that visit, I was fascinated by the idea of it all. Everything from the towering glass walls to the carousels of luggage to the neon lights that lined the aisles captivated me.
It was the embodiment of adventure, of bravery. Watching the planes take off down the runway and off into the unknown stirred something inside me. I wanted to be a part of those that smoked in executive lounges and stowed away briefcases into overhead compartments. Blinded by romantic ambitions, I hadn’t known that with every flight to exotic lands and bustling cities, the familiar is left behind.
The airport changed its theme and decoration for the central chamber seasonally, or was it annually, or perhaps whenever it needed to. During my first visit, I remember sitting at the edge of a long, white marble fountain littered with coins and wishes, spouting dozens of streams into the air that reached the upper levels and nearly touching the cathedral ceiling. I wanted to run across it and watch the ripples in the water. Now in its place stood a 70 foot Christmas tree adorned with swirls of lights, red and gold orbs, and capped with a crystal star that illuminated the rooftop. I had nearly forgotten that it was almost Christmas. Staring down from the upper railings, the tree was a magnificent sight to behold. Christmastime had always been painfully nostalgic. This was about to be my second time leaving home. I begin to think of my first trip outside of the city around this time three years ago. At first, I think of snow. Then the summer. Then Nora. And the scent of oranges is upon me.