airports have sometimes been called ‘non-places’, empty of local flavor and culture, distressingly similar, spots that only exist to be on the way somewhere else. It’s true that reality here seems far from the wind and grass. I miss the feel of grass working its way into my socks, the smell of sage. From where I sit I can count eleven screens, without turning my head.
But that ‘not interesting, only good for passing through’ description has also been leveled at the prairies. And the truth is, all spaces can become places if we pay attention and know their story. Here is a drawing I made the first day I arrived, of our route (and my roots). Imagination is also a transitional place. We imagined this long walk, and it came to be. Space became place, in the walking and the telling. Still, I miss the prairie.