Airport dreaming
I hate dreaming of airports. And yet, I so often do.
These are not always airports I've actually been to -- last night's dream featured, for some odd reason, an airport someplace in Cambodia, a land I've never seen. Incidentally, it looked nothing like my inner image of anything in Cambodia, but my dreams like to argue with me that way. Most often, I'm reluctantly trying to leave from the Albany airport (where I often can get on the plane) or desperately trying to leave from the Tokyo airport, finding myself unable to do so, this last in an odd and irritating reflection of the one time I was trying to leave the Tokyo airport and return to Miami. Horrific as that airport was, you would think my subconscious would have moved past this by now. Sometimes I'm trying to return from Nepal. Occasionally, in those dreams, images from one of Nepal's real airports creeps in, as goats wander the runways. (The runway at the airport of Royal Chitwan National Park, where I have been, is tended by goats; before the planes actually land, children chase the goats off the runway.)
Sometimes I manage to get on the plane at these airports, which is not always a good thing. Most often, of course, I cannot leave -- as in last night, where I had hellish difficulties getting to the airport (some of which perhaps could have been blamed on the dream Cambodia, even less organized than I imagine the real Cambodia might be); clearing security (they kept claiming I was carrying a knife, but I wasn't) rushing through to the gates and seeing I had plenty of time because everybody, including loucheroo, was waiting in a very long line, giving me time to run to Starbucks (see? Starbucks really has taken over everything, even dream airports) where they shockingly insisted on serving me quickly and in under one minute (proving this was a dream) and rushing back to find that my line had disappeared and nobody knew where my plane was, or how I could leave.
I figure I dream of airports at least once a week, sometimes more: the facile explanation, I suppose, is that in real life, airports are departure and destination points, clear marks in a journey against a real life that rarely offers such clear milestones, an image seized by my subconscious as it tries to process my real life journeys. A second explanation might be that since I've spent a lot of generally not overly happy time in airports, waiting for planes to fail to fly off at the designated time, something wants to remind me that in that shadowy dreamworld that hugs our own, planes and airports are even worse -- even if travelling is generally easier.
These are not always airports I've actually been to -- last night's dream featured, for some odd reason, an airport someplace in Cambodia, a land I've never seen. Incidentally, it looked nothing like my inner image of anything in Cambodia, but my dreams like to argue with me that way. Most often, I'm reluctantly trying to leave from the Albany airport (where I often can get on the plane) or desperately trying to leave from the Tokyo airport, finding myself unable to do so, this last in an odd and irritating reflection of the one time I was trying to leave the Tokyo airport and return to Miami. Horrific as that airport was, you would think my subconscious would have moved past this by now. Sometimes I'm trying to return from Nepal. Occasionally, in those dreams, images from one of Nepal's real airports creeps in, as goats wander the runways. (The runway at the airport of Royal Chitwan National Park, where I have been, is tended by goats; before the planes actually land, children chase the goats off the runway.)
Sometimes I manage to get on the plane at these airports, which is not always a good thing. Most often, of course, I cannot leave -- as in last night, where I had hellish difficulties getting to the airport (some of which perhaps could have been blamed on the dream Cambodia, even less organized than I imagine the real Cambodia might be); clearing security (they kept claiming I was carrying a knife, but I wasn't) rushing through to the gates and seeing I had plenty of time because everybody, including loucheroo, was waiting in a very long line, giving me time to run to Starbucks (see? Starbucks really has taken over everything, even dream airports) where they shockingly insisted on serving me quickly and in under one minute (proving this was a dream) and rushing back to find that my line had disappeared and nobody knew where my plane was, or how I could leave.
I figure I dream of airports at least once a week, sometimes more: the facile explanation, I suppose, is that in real life, airports are departure and destination points, clear marks in a journey against a real life that rarely offers such clear milestones, an image seized by my subconscious as it tries to process my real life journeys. A second explanation might be that since I've spent a lot of generally not overly happy time in airports, waiting for planes to fail to fly off at the designated time, something wants to remind me that in that shadowy dreamworld that hugs our own, planes and airports are even worse -- even if travelling is generally easier.