We found a sanctuary, a person-free oasis in a sea of humanity. Let me describe that humanity: it’s nine o’clock, the early one, still breakfast time. We just got off a plane from Baltimore. In Chicago, they line the bars. The Home Run, R.J. Grunts, and The Hubbard Inn. Bloody Marys, mimosas, beers, low balls, high balls, shots. Even at my drunkiest, I never did this. No booze before noon, my mantra, certainly not at nine. It later morphed into no booze before four.

Daytime drinking derailed me, ruined my night. It left me tired rather than drunk. Where’s the fun in that. These Chicagoans wash down their frosted flakes with wine. I look at the dozens camped out on their bar stools, and I think “wow, they’ve got a problem.” I’m projecting—assigning my issues to them. They seem happy, I’m the one uncomfortable in a crowd.

Our oasis: the Yoga Room at Midway International Airport in Chicago. We’ve never seen one of these before. We have time to kill, why not do some yoga? It’s a peaceful room, a blonde-wood floor, ample sunlight filtering through the colorful frosted windows, large potted plants soften the corners. The couple hanging out when we arrived left a few minutes later. Susan flowed some sun salutations, then settled into a child’s pose—arms extended out front, butt pushed back, resting on her feet, reminiscent of a stretching tiger. We relished the private, unimpeded space. I laid gingerly on my back, gasping the whole way down. I pulled a chest muscle yesterday, something I do every couple of months.

Thirty years ago, after being hit by a car, internal bleeding caused my lung to collapse. I risked drowning in my own fluids. A quick fix: the doctor jabbed a couple of chest tubes between my ribs. The blood drained, and I didn’t die, but wow, he sure hosed up my chest. My intercostal muscles, the dense, fibrous tissue between my ribs, easily strain. Randomly, twenty minutes or so after exercise, my body goes boing. One of those muscles pulls. For at least fifteen seconds, I can’t breathe. I can’t even move. It loosens up a bit over the next few hours, but it takes a good week to move fluidly again.

On the concourse, trudging in step with the multitudes, an airport-centric discussion topic arises. What is the purpose of a moving walkway, resting or speedy transport. I guess this extends to escalators as well, but I don’t get annoyed when people stand still while riding an escalator. It drives me nuts on a moving walkway. Such an Americanism, the floor is moving so you can stop. Must. never. waste. excess. energy!

At the food court, Susan points out a hotdog stand. “Do you think that’s Sophie’s hot dog place?” Fifteen years ago, our family flew into Midway on a cross-country vacation. Sophie wanted a hot dog for lunch. I snaked through the long line with her. When we got to the counter the guy asked “So what do you want on your hot dog, honey?”

“Ketchup and relish.”

“Nope, you’re not getting that.” The guy admonished a seven-year-old for wanting ketchup on her hot dog. Such a Chicago-thing. I stepped in, “Just give her the ketchup, dude.” Sophie’s first exposure to regional snobbery.

After twenty minutes alone in the yoga room, we left to find our gate. Our flights are on-time today, a happy surprise after our last couple of air travel adventures, a pair of interminable days at O’Hare and Oakland International. Days that in some alternative universe might not have ended yet. Today I discovered that despite some obnoxious hot dog vendors, and throngs of breakfast drinkers, Midway International Airport isn’t a bad place to spend part of the day.