Even a brief trip can make home seem strange when you return. So can the weather.
Our airport, remodeled after years of labor and inconvenience, is now sleek, at the cost of having become enormous. Leaving our plane, we found ourselves going up and down escalators, through food courts, and past an indoor fountain, when all we wanted to do was get out and go home. The view of the once glamorous skyline from our inbound taxi was cheesy: the spired Deco masterpieces that once topped it aspired to show what the future should be. Now their dreamscape is rudely shared with what it became: googly ribbons of glass, as interesting as the tear-off strips on a lost-dog poster. The traffic clotted and slowed as we approached our building, making the long trip yet longer. When we got out, the air was stifling, humid. Breathing was like sticking your face into a hot, wet towel: a bad sign.
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