Visiting one’s old “home” airport and not running into any acquaintances has the same disquieting feeling as visiting one’s old high school and seeing all the fetuses running around pretending to be adolescents. A couple ghosts, who would be reasonable passengers heading toward the same destination, but probably results of pareidolia mixed with flight-madness induced prosopagnosia. These travelers are not MY travelers. Also: I almost just headed for AirBART on autopilot instead of catching my connection.
The places mostly persist though, reminding me of my inability to legitimately adopt certain colloquial pronunciations, despite my best efforts.
Here I go, here I go, here I go, again.