Travel

Telling people about your travel mishap is like telling them what you dreamt last night. Interesting only to you, extremely boring to everyone else. But here’s mine from this morning anyway.

Changi Airport is as efficient as advertised. I walked from the street curb to my gate within minutes. I went duty free shopping, enjoyed a cup of kopi, and even visited The Jewel before 8 am.

Then, as we were boarding, some of us were pulled from the flight due to last minute weight restrictions. The airline prioritized adding cargo to the flight. There were ~50 empty seats on the airplane when it departed.

After watching our plane leave with sad puppy eyes, we were held in airport purgatory. A teenager in our newly formed group of exiles said he had already been removed from the previous night’s flight for the same reason of cargo.

He had to sleep inside the airport because customs blocked his attempts to exit. He slept on a bench and said with sincerity it was a “good bench.” Oh, to be young.

Personally, I was not keen on becoming Changi’s Viktor Navorski, so I pushed for our release. After over an hour of phone calls and paperwork, we finally received an escort to help us exit customs. During the wait, we did what Americans do best: small talk.

I noticed the airport agent helping us was putting us on the same exit form. I realized she thought we were a group and I clarified we were total strangers who’d just met. She exclaimed, “I thought you were a family! You’re not a family?”

The group of us looked about as related as a United Colors of Benetton ad. But she repeated about a dozen more times, unprompted and still shocked, that she truly thought we were a family. She said we talked to each other like family.

Finally, around noon, we were released from the airport. We had been altogether for a while at this point. One of my fellow exiles and I went for coffee and had a fun chat.

They asked if I was on Instagram or any social media. I explained the only social media I use is a sufficiently decentralized network called Farcaster. They asked if they could see it on my phone.

Looking at Farcaster, the first thing they asked (I can’t make this up) was, “Are there really only 37 people on it?”

I took my phone back and looked. The post at the top of my home feed was a cast from July: “I love all 37 of you.”

I explained no, no, no, it’s just an inside joke of sorts. There are many thousands of people on the network.

“But only 37 people liked the post.”

Of course.

Anyway, this morning was eventfully uneventful. And possibly the first time someone’s been onboarded to Farcaster as a result of excess cargo weight. I will introduce them someday if they stick around.

I don’t know if I will ever see them again here, or there, or anywhere. But I also don't know that about the 37 of you here. And none of us know where this purple Internet plane is headed or how many of us will stay.

So I treasure the little, unplanned moments when we get to pierce the illusion of our separateness. I treasure you, reading this. In the grand scheme of things, we are all a family indeed - if we want to be.

planting causal loops; harvesting reflexivity

ok maybe 42

idk where the 37 comes from so I'll change it