Crouched in a Friday's outlet on a communal leather couch in the Moscow airport. My feet are pounding from lack of use, and the thin spots of blistered skin at my heels and toe knuckles feel like they'll give out from pressure of extra blood idling within. There's a remix of Justin Timberlake's Rock Your Body oozing into this dining coral, and my waiter is snap clapping in his suspenders along to its smooth and distant disco beats. He is excited to use his English. Wilted iceberg lettuce arrives like a photoshopped Tinder date, background vocals sharp and sour as the salad dressing that's sloped across my red and white checked plate. There's sodden clumps of parsley emerging from diced tomato islands afloat in an oil lake within its borders that I avoid in favor of occasional pockets of larval canned mandarin orange slices. A morbid fascination with drowning a baby's pressurized cabin cries in Michael Bublé playlists courtesy of Aeroflot comes back to me as I space out to a slowly rotating diner display of a single slice of cheese cake, three Pelegrino waters, two lemons, and some fake nachos. In an airport every comfort is unnecessary, though travel culture has crossbred with luxury malls in order to distract from the disorientation that happens from watching the sun ping pong above the horizon for hours as you defy logic in a flickering remix of entertainment. Even without the lure of duty free shops, and Hermes scarf outlets, you'd still have to enter an agreement with this system of half life centers to visit everything that oceans and mountains keep us from. And so this interpretation of customer service becomes a blend of affordable chairs, toilets, and a mix bag of clear white objects. Interpretive variations on the classics - a landscape for anxious travelers.