Something I wrote while waiting at JFK for my flight back to BKK.

JFK, Terminal 7. Check-in takes away my guitar because it won’t fit in an Airbus 340 cabin, and security my Poland Springs water because Polish water is dangerous unless it costs $3 at shops inside the terminal. Duty free for a friend, a final American coffee served with a bad joke by the kind of girl I never realized I missed. She was beautiful and it was a house coffee. She asked if I wanted anything else with it, like maybe a car, and laughed at me when I said maybe just steamed milk.

Now I’m sitting at Gate 4, waiting for everyone else to board so I don’t have to wait in line, and wondering whether I’m leaving home, or going home…

Maybe it’s a little of both.