Dante envisioned Hell as an inferno.  He should have envisioned it as an airport.  An airport with waiting rooms where one can look out over miles of frozen asphalt and cubic sheds covered with unfathomable steel tubes and railings and gas pumps and hatches.  An airport where one waits and waits for one’s flight only to learn that it has been cancelled, and that one must wait and wait for a later flight, also to be cancelled… where one wanders in an endless circle over moving walkways, from terminal to terminal, lugging a heavy carry-on bag and looking for a ticket agent, who refers one to a customer service agent, who then refers one to a ticket agent.  An airport where there is no help for the Russian woman who is crying and wandering from one official-looking person to another, pleading in broken English, “Need plane Toronto.  Mother have surgery… why plane cancel?  Please, please, Toronto tonight.”

Hell is the airport from which there is no flight out.