On Airports

Whenever we safely land in a plane, we promise God a little something. 

- Mignon McLaughlin, The Neurotic's Notebook, 1960

I love people movers. You know, those long, flat, escalator-like contraptions that make you feel like a superhero at the airport?   

Seriously, if I had the time, I would just ride back and forth for hours, in addition to several physics experiments I have in mind.

I find myself in airports quite frequently these days, so much so that I could probable devote a thousand or so words to the topic. So I will.

Airports have always been sort of a magical place for me. I never actually flew until I was 18 and off to basic training in South Carolina. On my own for the first time and having been dropped off in Chicago the night before by my parents, I had a one-way ticket (on an airline that no longer exists), $25, no luggage, and really no idea how to navigate the complex system that is O'Hare International Airport. I imagine that what I felt that morning is awfully similar to what our students might feel when they come to the College for the first time -- wide-eyed, hyper-alert, and little nervous about how things will go. 

The airport is anticipation. It's a stamp in your passport, a memory of the stale smoke-smell of Heathrow, the humidity and chaos at Jomo Kenyatta, and the antiseptic sterility in Beijing. 

For me, airports are yesterday's memories of a Red Stripe outside Montego Bay, the sprawl of Dallas-Fort Worth, and the psychedelic tunnel in Detroit. I recall the best parts, unhitched from the baggage of reality. Airports mean unlimited possibilities and unfettered itineraries, if nowhere other than in my head.

Since that first flight, I've always been fascinated by the whole idea of air travel and the systems that make it possible. I'll never get bored looking out the window and seeing airplanes land and take off. I enjoy visiting all the newsstands and food shops, the electronics stores and the sunglass huts.

I am enchanted (perfect word) with the adventure of it all, no matter what my destination. I could be going to DC for the twentieth time or across the ocean to a foreign country, it makes little difference. I experience what I think author Bill Bryson meant when he wrote, “To my mind, the greatest reward and luxury of travel is to be able to experience everyday things as if for the first time, to be in a position in which almost nothing is so familiar it is taken for granted.” 

I hope that feeling never changes, but reality dictates that most of my travel consists of the same routine -- a domestic destination, cab ride to a hotel followed by meetings in conference rooms that look remarkably similar the world over. Then, after a couple days, it all gets played in reverse.

Airports seethe and undulate in a discernible rhythm of motion and activity. There seems to be little conception of time (or social conventions) as weary travelers sleep during the day, have breakfast at night, and drink beer in the morning. 

I like the crowds. You can sit and think about things or watch the people -- the hurrying and obviously late, the flocks of teens on spring break, or young couples in love, the military personnel, the mommies and daddies with their offspring on the way to some vacation spot.

Necessarily, there is an older couple sitting somewhere, anticipating a visit with grandchildren or a cruise ship. The woman clutches her purse and holds her tickets, absently touching the carry-on bags in unfocused apprehension as the husband looks on, incognizant. Every five minutes, she checks her watch along with the zippers, straps, and boarding passes.

There is always a guy asleep in the boarding area, slumped back and snoring. I see a small child with his parents, attention divided equally between looking at the planes through the window and riding the people mover, just like me.

I'm always surprised to see how much stuff people carry with them. No one wants to pay the extra $15 to check a bag, so zippers strain to stay closed and bags hang off other bags. Bits of food, a souvenir or six, electronics, and inflatable neck pillows are tucked under arms or divided amongst the kids.

The technology of the place is quite incredible as well. Having a some interest in networks and software, I marvel at the fact that my cell phone can tell me every last detail about my itinerary in near real-time. As often happens at O'Hare, gates change and delays occur. I play another little game, timing the delay between the actual announced gate change and the time it takes before my phone application beeps to announce the new location. Five minutes at most, these days.

I Twitter the flight detail, which is liked to my Facebook account, so my wife and parents know what I'm up to. On the way in, my credit card slides smoothly into a self-check kiosk and in seconds, my destination is verified and I'm presented with a couple of big little decisions. Choose or change my seat, check a bag, buy an upgrade, or double your frequent flier miles?

The seat-choosing is always the most difficult part. Window  or aisle? Avoid the middle seat at all cost as playing the armrest game with strangers is no fun. Look for a row that has other open seats in hopes of getting a little extra room. Then of course, there is the big decision...upgrade or not.  At check-in, the machine tells me that I qualify for a business-class seat for just $45. I mull the decision. 

Checking a bag costs $15 in coach but its "free" in business class. Now it is a $30 decision. How long is the flight? Are there lots of seats available in coach? 

I always choose wrong. About half the time, I pick the upgrade and invariably I regret it. Last week I flew to Washington and took the upgrade on the way out. Unfortunately, it was a small plane with very little space difference between business and coach. The guy next to me is intent on making up his ticket price in wine. I count seven refills before I get disgusted and close my eyes. After the hour-and-a-half flight, I decide it wasn't worth it.

On the way home, I skip the upgrade and chose a window seat, 10F. Near enough to the front and close to the exit row. As I board the plane, I do my little pre-flight ritual. It consists of placing my right hand flat on the skin of the aircraft for about 5 seconds, right before I duck in the door. I'm not sure when or why I started doing this. Maybe always. But now, every single flight I take, that's what I do. I'm sure someone has a theory about my little routine, but so far, it has worked perfectly. I've never been killed in a plane crash.

Inside are hundreds of people, their luggage crammed into the overhead compartments, tray tables in the upright position and all electronics turned off and tucked away for the duration of the flight, except for the one person talking loudly to someone that is apparently very interested in the details of the loud talker's life.

I like takeoffs and landings, and the in-between part can be fun if I have an entertaining seatmate, but I don't really like the actual flight that much. I look ahead to my seat and my stomach sinks. A young couple with a small child are already wedged into 10D and E. As I get closer, 10F begins to look terribly small and inaccessible. How am I with my computer bag and pressed suit, going to survive this?

Her name is Mia and she is 14 months old. She is a bit small for her age, according to her mother, an equally small woman with dreadlocks and a crooked smile. Her husband is from Chicago and they are on the way home for a visit. Mia is dressed in bright pink with matching little sneakers that are now in my lap as we taxi for take-off.

We are not in the air but a few seconds when Mia lets out a ear-splitting scream, instantly informing rows one through thirty-two that she is no longer enjoying herself. 

Mom and Dad do their best with liberal application of toys, food, picture books. Mia will have none of it. In mid-yell, she suddenly notices me and climbs over. Mom is horrified, embarrassed, apologetic, and probably a little worried. I smile and tell her not to fret. I recount for her that my (at the time) 6 year-old son slept the entirety of a ten hour flight, sprawled on top my wife and me.

For the next hour-and-a-half, Mia and I are inseparable. 

Sitting in my lap, together we investigate air-sick bags, Sky Mall magazine, the window shade, my tie, my watch, and my phone. Mom and Dad apologize several times and try to retrieve Mia, but she wants nothing more than to expore this strange new person in the window seat, 10F.

On approach over the great Lake Michigan, Mia falls asleep and the transfer back to Mom's arms takes place uneventfully. I have a sweaty, wrinkled shirt, some cheerios stuck to my tie, and a smile on my face.

I drive to the next hotel in silence with another stamp in my mind's passport.

PS: Rest easy and in peace, Karen Keener.

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