chicago breathing

The first time I get to breathe in America is gazing at a far-off city.

Eight hours into my journey, I walk like somnolent stranger through Chicago airport, unable to get to grips with the shifting timezones and thus unaware that I have plenty of time to get to my connecting flight. I'm dully aware that I can feel ripples of excitement expanding and contracting in my stomach, but the feelings are being suppressed and flattened out by the jetlag and my uncertainty of direction. I try hard to concentrate, and fail, then discover to my horror that I am in the wrong terminal building and must catch a train to another, but the unpleasantness of the realisation forces me to wake up and get a handle on things, and I discover to my relief that I have plenty of time to get to the departure gate.

I use my last dollop of nervous energy getting myself onto the train, and it is only circling the airport that I catch a breath, seeing, sitting like a dusty mirage in the faraway distance, the city of Chicago, which is breaking up from the horizon like a graph, a compact pile of skyscrapers taller than any other I have seen. That first breath is studded with excitement and intrigue, and inhaled by adjacent passengers, before we reach the terminal and I clatter silently along to the departure gate.