The air in the hangar was stale and musty. Large metal racks filled the space, and on each shelf sat a bag of some sort, with the paper destination tags sticking out from thousands of handles.
Metal cases, that looked like the luggage common to rock n roll types, filled an entire section near the back. Golf bags and surfboards peeked out from behind a pile of sleeping bags, tents and folded baby strollers.
An entire aisle was filled with soft sided luggage and on the bottom those older bags that forced the owners to sit on top and tie a strap around the bag to keep it shut.
A line of people formed early in the morning – even before daybreak. Some with folding chairs, some sitting or snoozing directly on the blacktop. Many had driven for hours, even overnight, for a chance to bid on the unclaimed luggage.
This was the last stop, before the end of the road, for the well worn sweats of the backpacker heading home after 6 months on the road. The torn and stained tee-shirts and shorts of the free-spirited sailor home from crewing in the Seychelles last summer.