Aubrie Edmond, Contributing Writer

This weekend I flew home from California for the first time since I’ve lived there. I had one layover in LAX, and of course I was three hours early to my flight out of SMF. There’s something about airports that I love. Maybe it’s the people watching, or maybe it’s the unique melange of chaos and novelty, the rare feeling of timelessness and spacelessness, the state of non-being. I find liminal spaces intriguing; their uncanniness feels strangely nostalgic and safe. There was a conference room in my dorm freshman year that felt like it didn’t exist. It was cold and outdated, almost completely untouched. Throughout the year, it was used only by boys on the floor above us who were eager to meet girls. It was a ghost in the hall. I used to go there at night to call my friends from home when my roommate decided to enforce an 11:00 curfew in our room. Needless to say, we did not get along.

When I was at LAX, I went to a place called BUILT Burger. I stood in line waiting to order a custom burger. When I got to the front and ordered from the cashier, he looked at me inquisitively.

“So, you just want a plain cheeseburger?” he asked. I was confused. I looked at the menu and back at him. “I can just make a note about the cheese and sauce,” he clarified, “I’d feel bad about making you pay like ten dollars extra for a plain cheeseburger.” I thanked him and waited for my burger. It was one of the best burgers I’ve ever had.

I’m not used to kindness at airports, especially not at LAX. It’s a prehistoric landscape: eat or be eaten. You cut people in line, take up too much space, and live selfishly. You watch families lose track of their rowdy toddlers, flight attendants gossip, and couples fight. It’s the perfect spectrum of humanity: a thoroughfare of life.