I’m a man of culture myself, but no matter how many sonnets or tragedies one hears, reads, or sees, nothing beats the airport as a theater for human awfulness, where the combination of mild inconvenience and proximity to vacation money transforms otherwise functional adults into petulant toddlers with credit cards. The Aruba airport, with its byzantine double-customs procedure, serves as a particularly elegant testing ground for character, a place where people reveal exactly who they are when faced with the radical concept of waiting in line like everyone else. It’s democracy’s cruelest joke: putting the wealthy and entitled in the same fluorescent-lit purgatory as the rest of us, then watching them discover that money can’t actually buy their way out of every minor annoyance.