Saturday. Airport. You can tell what sort a person is by where she sits in a restaurant. An easy theory, one I hesitate to apply to myself, because I know what the results say about me. I sit apart, by a wall, no one too close, but I like my chair to be turned toward the other people.

Two tables over was a boy with the best eyes, waving his fork and shrieking what I assumed was perfect Italian for "Look! A plane!" I watched them with him, watched as the sky went rose pink and the sun sank behind an Air France plane, its belly being filled by a Gate Gourmet truck.

Before it got dark enough to turn the windows to mirrors, it was hard to focus on the shadows of people walking by, their ghosts gliding over the runway. Half a neon sign reflected - I could only make out "ing." Banking? Shoe shining? I thought of as many ing-advertisable activities as I could, then turned to see the sign was Burger King. Burger King does not connote action.

The biggest newsstand has an "honesty box," drop your quarters in the slot and skip standing in line. Refreshingly old-world. I wonder if it works; I bet it does.

Change, radical change, we all need more of it. Maybe I'll start wearing hats. You never can tell with me.