There’s a sense of loss that sits in a closed-for-the-night airport terminal waiting for travelers returning from vacation after all the departing flights have departed for the day.
It accosted me as I limped off our flight from Los Angeles into the Spartanburg-Greenville Airport at 11:15 Friday night weighed down by electronic entertainment and backpacks overflowing with snacks. I’d been here just eight days before, brightly setting off for a week of family vacation with a sense of adventure and excitement. Now the lighting was dimmed, the Starbucks was shuttered, and the rows of seats were dead empty. It was as if I’d never left, only somehow a week of my summer had disappeared, Twilight-Zone-like, leaving an uneasy sense of having lost something in its wake.
This slightly sick feeling at the end of a vacation is nothing new to me. In fact, it’s pretty much a given. But it seemed grossly misplaced at the end of this particular trip. Because this time, I’d been to Whine Country.
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