I tend to file my nails everywhere. It’s a habit I’m very particular about. As I sit on my overstuffed suitcase filing away, in the middle of Houston International Airport, people look at me funny as they walk by. But you never know when you’re going to shred a nail, and after years of acrylics, my nails shred like crazy.

I find the airport to be the most fascinating place in the world, actually, and this is no different. Waiting for my computer to recharge between flights, I’ve propped myself against the wall of the Pilot’s Planning Room, along the edge of the blue-tiled hallway. Also known as George Bush International Airport, Houston’s main airport is everything you would imagine an airport named after a member of the Bush family would be – confusing, poorly designed, and bland. People rush by me, carrying a veritable plethora of overflowing paper bags, foot-long margarita glasses, dead flowers from a recent wedding. Travelers venturing to far-away locales, visits with family, military training camp. Traditional Amish in their bonnets and skirts, pilots in their stuffy uniforms, salesmen who look as though they’d rather be flying anywhere other than the destination stated on their ticket.

“Michigan, eh?” a pilot asks, staring down at my t-shirt as he leaves the room I’m resting against.
“What? Oh yes,” I answer back.
“Go plug in by the President’s Club,” he tells me, dragging his baggage behind him, “There’s free Internet.”