Sometimes when I travel, I lie. Not to the security people, because that would be illegal, but to the people in the waiting area by the gate or sitting next to me on the plane. A typical conversation could go as follows:

Unsuspecting, sort of cute, friendly gate mate: So, are you going to New York on business?

Me: Yeah, it is.

At this point in the conversation I would take out a magazine, (The New Yorker or Harper’s… carefully hiding the Glamour I bought at the newsstand) and start to read. Unsuspecting Cute Gate Mate would think, “What a smart, cool woman. I hope I’m seated in her row.”

In real life, I lose everything and can never actually see the surface of my own desk. But in Airport World, suspended between the chaos of where I’m coming from and the craziness of where I’m going to, a pulled-together-has-her-life-under-control-always-brushes-her-hair-before-leaving-the-house self surfaces. I smile at the security officers who check my drivers license every 10 feet and laugh every time they comment how I look 14 years old in my photo. My boarding pass is ready to flash and my ID is not buried in the bottom of my purse. I remember not to wear shoes that take forever to lace and my socks are clean. My liquids are in less-than-three-ounce containers and are in a plastic zip-top bag, and it’s easily accessible in my neatly packed carry-on. The security guards love me because I follow the rules perfectly. I own those security checkpoints.

Most of the time, I’m flying between New York and Chicago. I go back and forth between home and school, bouncing between two separate spheres, each with its own set of anxieties, demands and personas. Like a basketball being bounced across a gym floor, I hit each of my lives with a thud, make some noise and then get up again and move. The airport represents the peak of that parabolic journey, a place I can hang for a moment after the journey up before heading back down to either reality.

After security, I like to find my gate and then a really good cup of coffee (these are hard to find). Airport food is always overpriced but I usually treat myself to something sweet and cake-y to go with my soy cappuccino. And that’s it. Coffee, check. Scone, check. Mission accomplished. In between home and school I allow myself to just sit with my coffee and do nothing else, or read trashy magazines or look out the window and listen to Joni Mitchell while watching the planes take off and get smaller and smaller. No voice in my head urges me to be productive.

I like to stand beneath the boards of arrivals and departures and see where all the people are going. Nobody here is static and their motion signifies purpose. I’ll remember nostalgically when I was on the flights I envy today. London to Rome, Barcelona to Florence, Amsterdam to London. I knew all the airport codes in Western Europe and instead of shuttling between home and school I traveled for exploration and adventure. I didn’t have to lie in the airport to make myself more interesting. Other times I think about which of the trips I’ll someday take, who I’ll take them with, how old I’ll be, who I’ll be.

Old places can seem new again if you’re traveling to them instead of from them. Even home holds new promise once you’ve been away for a while. It’s like when you don’t see your family for a while and you miss them so much because without their faces constantly in yours you’ve forgotten how you always fight. This idea works for places too. When I haven’t been home for a while I forget how boring suburbia is, how there’s never anybody around, how a trip to Target becomes the highlight of a day.

And new places! Without even a trace of bad memory to haze over, new places hold incredible potential of fulfilling that perfect Lonely Planet experience. I can picture myself strolling down the Champs-Élysées and being mistaken for a Parisian or meeting cute surfers on the beach in Malibu. In these pictures it never rains, my feet don’t hurt from walking all day and sand doesn’t get in my bathing suit. It’s perfect and before I arrive I can still wholeheartedly believe that the destination will live up to my ideals and sometimes believing this is the best part of a trip.

I like to make lists in the airport, of all the things I want to do or see or accomplish or photograph, and I like believing that I’ll have all of these crossed off by the time I board my return flight. I furiously mark up guidebooks and study maps so I can be the perfect traveler. I make schedules. I have conversations with myself in my head in Spanish so I don’t embarrass myself upon landing and ask where to find sopa (soup) instead of jabón (soap) in the farmacia. I try and memorize the phrases in the Italian phrasebooks so I don’t look like a stupid American. Perhaps it’s a delusion, but it’s one I enjoy.

Hassles at security, long waits, greasy food and frequent delays have taken the pleasure out of air travel for most people. Once upon a time people dressed up to fly. They wore suits and hats and ties instead of pajama pants and slip on shoes that take eight seconds less to remove at security. Now, when people say they love to travel, they usually mean the activities that commence once the plane has landed and they’ve gotten themselves out of that godforsaken fluorescent nightmare of an airport. Not me. I eagerly anticipate the hours between check in and take off, when I can be alone and surrounded by people, drink my coffee, and bathe in the belief that good things are on the other side of my flight. Optimism comes more easily in that strangely bright and artificial crossroads of humanity.