Confessions of a Traveling Eavesdropper

feeling like the last human in the airport

I’ve come to think of myself as a traveling eavesdropper. I collect fragments—not for any purpose, really, other than to learn about the people around me. What can I say? I like strangers. My parents used to tell me not to stare. Now I catch myself saying the same to my three-year-old. I’ve done this my whole life, but it’s become easier to stare when no one else is looking.

This is what I saw this morning. I hope you enjoy the absurdity of our lives.

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It’s 6:30 a.m., and the man seated in first class orders a tequila.

The woman in 13E stares at looping reels of chicken and waffles—syrup dripping, butter melting, fried batter crunching again and again. She’s in basic economy, alone. Her boyfriend sits a few rows up in Comfort Plus. She tried to join him (it was an empty seat) but she was told to move. A seat, apparently, is better left vacant than filled with a basic person. She orders the free snack mix and keeps watching reels of food she can’t touch.

Beside me, a man toggles between ESPN and Twitter threads. At first, it’s harmless; and, to be honest, boring. But then his feed shifts. Down, down, down into a world of foot fetishes and something that might technically be classified as porn. He watches casually. Like he’s alone. But of course, he’s not.

In the seat in front of me, FOX News is on. Trump is calling for renaming the Persian Gulf. Lawmakers debate trans athletes and the sanctity of the Gulf of Mexico. It's 7:12 a.m. and already the house is on fire.

I get off the plane and sit at a restaurant with no server. I’m told to scan a QR code to order. The first four sections of the menu are cocktails. It’s 10 a.m. I smile at the woman who brings me water. She never looks up. I thank her anyway. Still nothing. Champagne pops.

At the bar, five TVs play at once.
On one: a rerun of Charmed. Paige is transported back to high school, desperate for her parents' love. Her parents won’t make eye contact. They talk about feeding the cat instead; Paige frowns.
On another screen: TikToks loop; girls doing the same dance, again and again.
On another: a pharmaceutical ad lists 50 seconds of side effects for a drug I don’t remember the name of.

A 40-something waiter complains to another: “She sent me a birthday card with no money in it. Don’t waste a stamp if there’s no $25 gift card inside.”

An older man orders cheesecake and flips through a real newspaper with a headline about the race to build gas power plants. He has to ask his server for help placing his order. He’s not too pleased to be doing this at a sit-down restaurant, and neither is she.

A child named Lou crawls into my personal space. He’s 20 months old and loves ketchup. I pepper him with questions. He’s delighted to answer. His mother watches with relief. Finally, someone who doesn’t find her child annoying.

The managers sit at the bar with spreadsheets, calculating whether their human-to-machine ratio is generating enough profit this month.

At the bar, two people sit side by side for an hour. Never look up. Never speak.

The woman in front of me orders a Bloody Mary. She stares, stone-faced, at her computer. In fact, I notice all of us humans wear the same scowl when staring into our laptop screens; like all our work is so serious. Then her face changes. It’s time to livestream. Eyebrows lift. Eyes widen. A smile appears. For thirty seconds, she performs. She reviews the clip, then drops back into that same downward gaze. The light goes out.

The waiter who hates cards also hates his job. His bosses ask for anonymous comments to make things “better,” but he sees through it. “They want feedback? I’ll give it to them. I’ll write how I really feel.”

The food arrives. It looks real. But it tastes like simulation.

I wander into the airport’s Interfaith Chapel. It’s empty. Prayer rugs rest neatly on benches, waiting.

Outside, on the airport’s terrace, jets roar overhead. The air is warm and full of fuel and movement. A few people come out to take selfies, then leave. Most others stay glued to their phones with sloppy sandwiches in hand. A group of employees joins them on break. One announces, “I have arrived!” and the others nod while staring down at their screens.

I imagine the architects who designed this space pictured something different: shared air, shared pause. Instead, it’s just another holding pen.

We know what human connection looks like, so we perform it.
We know what food should look like, so we stage it.
We know what birthday celebrations, restaurants, marriages, friendship should feel like, so we simulate them.

We speak through glass.
We order without speaking.
We sit beside people we love and forget to look at their faces.

But I can’t stop noticing. Maybe it’s the curse of the documentarian.