Departure Day, being the Fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Sitting in O'Hare on my first of two layovers -- not part of my original itinerary, or even of the itinerary after that -- I feel as if I should write something poetic about liminality. The bus from my arrival terminal to the international terminal, going through security for the second time . . . watching two Sunday services, one at home and one in Edinburgh, but being physically present for neither . . . I'm sure there's something terribly deep there, but I can't think what it is.

The gate agents are busy making sure people are going to be able to get where they want to go. "Do you have the QR code you need to get into Spain?" "Have you registered your fourteen-day self-isolation address with the UK?" (That one was for me, and of course I have.) I have all sorts of paperwork just in case Her Majesty's border agents, who can be skeptical (or "sceptical") at the best of times, are inclined to be inquisitive: the itinerary for my return flight (so they know I'm not planning to stay indefinitely), my fellowship letter from IASH (so they know I have a legitimate reason to be in Edinburgh), a pay stub (so they know I'm employed), and even two negative COVID test results from the past two weeks (which won't make any difference but does make me feel strangely virtuous).

I suppose I'll check in again tomorrow when I'm stuck at Heathrow for eight hours. (Also not part of my original itinerary, or even of the itinerary after that.) After a good night's sleep -- I am strangely optimistic -- I may finally have the deep thoughts about liminality that are eluding me now.