I never sleep well the night before an early flight, no matter the reason for the trip, there is always a palpable sense of excitement and apprehension that accompanies dark.
So there I sat, on a November morning, eyes red, coffee in hand, breathing in that scent of chemical adventure only airports reek of. I had recently bought a 35mm camera, an attempt to take more “thoughtful” photos. The purchase was a response to a year long trip that contained far too many unexciting pictures to sort through. Disappointing, really, the amount of wasted time I spent attempting to capture moments that I should have been experiencing through my eyes instead of a lens.
I was early to my gate, as perusal, and thus one of the only viewers to witness the pink sky that greeted the whipped cream peaks of Denver International Airport. I used to believe that giants constructed the building and finished it off with massive meringues to give it an appealing look. This ode to food is irreversibly linked in my mind to a sense of adventure. It whispers to me of cobbled streets, hidden cafes, and lush mountains.
Could it be that the architect unknowingly instilled in me an irreversible obsession with both food and adventure through his designs?
I sat in silence contemplating this, wondering if a structure could have such an impact on my life. I had gazed down from above onto those pyramids of white more times than I could count. I had left and returned to them, understanding that when the plane descended through the clouds, and the building appeared, I had returned home, once again.