The intermediate stage between here and there is still here. In fact, it’s all here—we’re all here, all us travelers crackling with the stored static electricity of our stories, like Leyden jars in transit. We’re just passing through, I tell myself, but that’s small comfort when I’m amped up as I am, needing to earth the stories, to ground myself. I’m no theologian, god knows, but passing through this bardo (the Bardo of Airports) reminds me of every other waiting room, train station, bus stop, unskillful detour— having not yet arrived where we’re going, we stick to a seat, a carpet. With luck, our fingers’ll find ways to shock us out of dozing, into a semblance of something awake.