The day began at 5:50 AM in Syracuse, New York. The air was heavy with the kind of stillness that only exists before the sun fully decides to rise. There’s something about moving through a city while it’s still asleep. Every red light feels less important. Every breath you take feels louder.
I loaded my bags, slung my camera gear over one shoulder, and walked toward the airport with quiet determination. No matter how many flights I take, there’s always a certain anticipation that sets in, not just for the destination, but for the in-between moments that happen when the rest of life is paused. Airports have a way of holding you in limbo.
At Syracuse Hancock International, I grabbed breakfast in the only way that felt right, a spontaneous Dunkin Donuts food review. I chose a cinnamon raisin bagel, nostalgic and simple. It used to be blueberry, but they’ve stopped offering that. A quiet reminder that things you love sometimes disappear without warning. They gave me strawberry cream cheese in a separate container. I wasn’t annoyed, just puzzled. Sometimes life hands you the pieces, and you have to assemble the meaning yourself.
And then the wait. Boarding announcements. Echoes from distant gates. The kind of airport ambience that feels familiar but never quite welcoming. Eventually, we took off. A smooth flight, calm skies, until they weren’t.
As we neared Orlando, the FAA issued a ground stop. Inclement weather had cloaked the runways in uncertainty. With nowhere to land, we were diverted to Fort Myers Beach. Unexpected. Unplanned. But sometimes the best parts of any day begin when you stop trying to script it.
Stranded mid-journey, I found myself in conversation with Lexi, the stranger seated next to me. It’s a curious thing, how quickly two people can connect when both are pulled from routine. We talked about life, travel, the absurdity of airport food, and the strange comfort of not knowing what happens next.
Eventually, the skies over Orlando cleared. The plane lifted again, and this time we descended into MCO with no further detours.
The next chapter of the day opened with my friend Alex waiting curbside. There's something grounding about being picked up by someone who knows you, no need for small talk, no explaining where you’ve been. Just shared space and gratitude. We grabbed lunch, traded stories, and filled the silence with ease.
And finally, Colin. My best friend. The kind of person who’s seen every version of me and never blinked. I handed him the souvenirs I picked up in Newfoundland, small gifts with quiet meaning. Things you collect not because they’re expensive, but because they hold the weight of a memory. A poncho the coast, a trinket from the town of Dildo market, hopefully he will wear it with pride.
What began as a simple travel day unfolded into a quiet meditation on patience, adaptation, and the unexpected connections we make when the plan falls apart.
Sometimes, it’s not the destination or even the journey that defines the experience. It’s who you meet when everything else is out of your control. It’s how you carry yourself when the schedule dissolves. It’s how you choose to see delay as opportunity, not inconvenience.
It’s strange, isn’t it, how easily a layover becomes a story. How a detour becomes the most honest part of the route.
So much of life is out of our hands. Weather delays. Bagels without cream cheese. Conversations with strangers who feel familiar. But in that surrender, there’s a kind of freedom. You begin to see the beauty in all the things you didn’t plan.
“The impediment to action advances action. What stands in the way becomes the way.” — Marcus Aurelius
You’re always welcome in this space.
Christopher
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