Detroit

Walking at a brisk pace while toting my suitcase and handbag, I follow the signs for Concourse C.  Elusive, mysterious, Concourse C.  More gates go by, more signs point the way, but my destination never arrives.  By now, I have seen half of this never-ending hallway.  I decide to take a shortcut; hop on the express train that runs along the ceiling.  As I settle into my seat, I realize I am doing something wrong.  Up here, there are no signs for C.  I trek back another half-length of and realize I diverged from my path at exactly the wrong time.  Surrounded by trickling water fountains and fast food restaurants, the gaping maw of the underground tunnel, it’s open throat emitting a simultaneously disconcerting yet somehow energizing pale blue light, stands before me leading the way to my so-coveted destination.  I descend.  Emerging from the azure ambiance, I see the way.  I rise quickly, aided by mechanized steps, to my loft in the sky.