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For my Honors Lit class, we've been assigned 3 personal essays, due next week. 1)location analysis, must end with an epiphany; 2)quote analysis, how does the quote pertain to your life; 3)what does writing mean to you.

This is the location one.

Enjoy heart


International Airport Evaluations

I sit in the Los Angeles International Airport, across from one of those newsstands. This one’s Hudson News, and it’s not getting much business. I have been here—LAX—twice in recent memory.
It’s entirely different than I remembered. I sit on the bench—well, those big long set of chairs that are exclusively found at airports—watching all the world go by.
Two young Asian girls sit near me—they’re quite young, and quite adorable. A well-meaning, grandmotherly looking security guard walks by, makes a kind comment, smiles. The girls look scared and only manage to smile nervously back. The security guard leaves, and the girls’ mother returns. Shortly thereafter the security guard returns, bearing gifts—Twizzlers, “because your sister does such a great job watching you” she says with another smile. The mother anxiously prods the younger to say “thank you”, but I think the girl is too young. She doesn’t open her mouth, in such shock she is, but instead her eyes widen with admiration, and the security pats her head and goes off to fight crime.
We—my family—relocate to the check in line, where I stand, almost fearfully, facing a barrage of too many languages at once. In front of and behind me in line, there are two families that appear to be going home for the holidays—literally. Their pushcarts are packed with several—I guesstimate at least 6 apiece—large, duct-taped, held together by rope U-Haul boxes, leading me to believe they’re either moving to Mexico or moving someone else there. Their turn comes up in the front of line and, lo and behold, their boxes are too heavy. About 25 pounds over, in fact; federal regulations require a heavy fee for all packages or luggage over 50 pounds. They speak rapidly to the desk worker—in Spanish, naturally—until the father nods resignedly, forks over the cash, and his packages are heaved onto the conveyor.
I wonder what was so important in those boxes that he would pay extra for them, but my turn comes at the front and we move on; eventually, without major incident, we get through the line and upstairs to the food court. How I love the smell of fried economy in the morning. After our quick stop at McDonald’s, we get on the flight.
Now, I have travelled many places, and flown on many airplanes, and decency required me to look at this flight objectively before making the rather bold claim that it was the worst flight I’ve ever flown. I am not a nervous flier by any means; I rather enjoy it. However, put me on a plane with a majority of religious Mexicans, continuously crossing themselves and muttering prayers under their breath—in Spanish—not to mention the fact that the plane squeaks right in the middle, and there is an odd sawing sound coming from underneath the plane—and you’ll find me tempted to cross myself and appeal to God, something that you wouldn't find me doing--ever.
I survive the flight, no worse for the wear other than bags under my eyes and a driving desire for the beach, and now we are in the Mexico City airport—el aeropuerto. The airport is strange; I’m not accustomed to Spanish in large prints and peering for English in small print. It makes me think how other families must have felt walking around at LAX. They were looking for anything in the language familiar to them, and now I’m left to sort out what those signs are saying. They want to get home—I want to get away.
So now I sit here, in another of those leather seats found exclusively at airports, listening to chatter—mostly in Spanish—occasionally looking out the window at a passing plane, attempting to shield my writing from my little brother, and wondering why people put themselves through a potential hell, just to get home to their families. I’ve never been away from my family for very long, so I can’t really empathize. But is family worth the unkown languages, creaky planes, murmured prayers?
I glance around at the families sitting around me and think for a moment.
It would seem so.

Hopefully, my teacher's strict!

Thank you Kirby heart

O rly? *searches*

Nuuuuu! Only my best friend can call me Kirbette! BLASPHEMY! Call the mafia--

...Meh, I don't care.

You're welcome!