I feel like a celebrity as we get of the plane at Sky Harbor. Coming down the tunnel, saying thank-you to the ceramic flight attendants, it feels like what I imagine being born is like. And though I’m not expecting anyone to meet us in the airport, I can’t shake the idea that someone – who shouldn’t – knows where we are.
I don’t tell this to Allison, who’s relaxed substantially since the plane took off from Lindbergh Field. She’s cool, I know, and I think most people would’ve been a little rattled at the scene back in San Diego.
No one was on the flight with us, so when we walk into the terminal proper, there are but a few people milling around, waiting for the other passengers. A lot of people on the flight were singles, and I think Phoenix is a big stop for business travelers.
I don’t really like Arizona, Allison says. There’s nothing to it. And I can’t ever remember meeting anyone from
here, you know? It’s like it’s a state, and I guess it functions, but it doesn’t seem like anyone really lives here. You drive around and you nobody’s on the streets. It’s weird.
Yeah, I say, I’ve never been a big fan of it myself.