Some four hours to go here at Atlanta International Airport until my UK bound flight departs. Four hours to kill.

I’ve already walked around the various retail offerings scattered around terminal E and terminal D. I purchased a magazine and came here to the central concourse area of terminal E to have a Starbucks coffee and sit in a comfortable chair.

It’s new years day. The year is now 2002. I’m going home, or at least I am going to the place I live. I suppose I’ve yet to lay my hat somewhere and call it home. Boston feels like home. When I flew there just this last week it felt like coming home as I landed at the now so familiar Logan International Airport. Maybe one day it will be home? Who knows?

So what shall I do for the next four hours? I’ve got my head phones on and I’m listening to music by Brian Eno. I believe that this particular album is called something like ‘Music for airports’. An apt choice more by chance than design.

I’m sitting right on the edge of a large seated area. I managed to get a comfortable armchair vacated by a suited lady just as my White Chocolate Mocha was ready. In front of me across the concourse a deserted information desk below a clock. It’s six thirty three.

Fake trees line the brightly lit expanse before me. People walk in all directions, some slowly, some fast. A man approaches the information desk and looks around hoping to attract the attention of someone who might be able to offer him some… information. No one is there though, but still he waits. It’s six thirty seven.

Have you ever just stopped and looked at the people around you in a busy place? All of them strangers. Everyone here is… [Click here to continue reading this article at ‘Meanwhile’]