LORENZEN | I Hate Always Knowing Where to Run
The line was at least 50 cars long. It moved forward at five miles an hour, at most, as one bumper followed another forward towards the terminal. There was no honking, no drivers rolling down their windows and yelling at other cars. Normally, you’d expect people to have less patience. But, as we slowly approached Boston Logan Airport, there was a sense that everyone had realized that this was something beyond normal traffic.