I love airports. I do. I don’t love it like I love other things—like, say, pizza. But I still give them the thumbs up. I think my ability to say that I love airports stems from the deep hatred other people have for them. To say I love airports could also be translated as I don’t hate airports with a burning passion of the Christ. I really think some people are at their most miserable in an airport. And, to that, I say a few things. A) You are the one who had all of those kids. And b) just calm the f down! Like seriously. Yes, things cost more in an airport. Yes, you have to take your shoes off. Yes, the lines can get long. But if you aren’t a crazy person, it all goes by quite quickly and painlessly.
On my latest flight, I ran into the usual suspects. The “I have no idea what to do at airport security” people. The “a cup of coffee costs what?!” people. The “what do you mean I can’t carry on 165 bags” people. You know, the sort of (white) people who use phrases like “this is ridiculous” with the sense of entitlement that makes you want to kill yourself. Honestly, if you ever hear those words leave your mouth, it is time to rethink your entire outlook on life.
I imagine these people have never had to work in any industry in which you interact with another human being. Like, yes, it was the guy whose job it is to initial your boarding pass who made up the rule to check your ID. That’s him, the head of TSA. This is where he works. SFO United gates 70 – 89. Calm down, woman.
The key to enjoying airports is getting there early. I always get to airports early. Sometimes, I get there super early. But typically, just regular early. That way, if security takes a long time, that’s cool. Oh, a long line to get my coffee? Awesome. I have three hours to kill anyway.
I think part of loving airports also has to do with living in New York. You won’t have to fight anyone for a seat on the plane. You are already used to paying over five bucks for a cup of coffee and a muffin. You are simply amazed to find bathrooms that have interacted with a mop. All in all, you could do a lot worse (like, say, the R train).
Still, with any flight there is an added bonus. Every flight has something. The added bonus on my flight was that there was a mystery bag that had snuck on board. So after some taxiing (words with two i’s in a row always look funny. Like skiing. Or radii.) we headed back to the gate. People on the plane freaked out. “This is ridiculous!” God forbid airline employees follow national law. The bigger freakouts came from business and first class. Yeah, I bet it is hard sitting in your huge chair that reclines. Your life really is just so hard.
I did get to make my best Jim Halpert face when the head airline stewardess (do they have an official name? Flight queen?) reminded us more than once that “in case of an emergency, you must leave all of your belongings behind” as if it were more applicable to this flight. Great. But I don’t mind. I have had to make announcements before. Sometimes they just don’t go as planned. I suggest writing them down first.
The old guy next to me was one of those old guys who learned to start conversations using the chum method. Dump a bucket of open-ended statements in the water and wait for the sharks around you to bite. I don’t play that game. “I guess it’s all in the name of safety!” he’d say to no one. I usually pretend I don’t speak English (you know, by reading a book). Rude? Maybe. But you have to be careful. Grandpas have these bear trap stories that they unleash on strangers. A polite nibble and suddenly you are desperately trying to gnaw your leg off as he tells you about the time he flew out of St. Louis in 1974. By the way, you should be visualizing someone setting a shark trap for bears or a bear trap for sharks. In any case, this bear-shark ain’t falling for it. Better luck next flight, corrective shoes.
Behind me, just for comic relief, sat the funniest little old Asian lady that you ever did meet. She was the last one on the plane, dragging her carry-on (and by carry-on, I of course mean garbage bag). After the return to the gate to remove the mystery bag, she gleefully announced “we’re here in New York!” I giggled. The French couple next to her didn’t get the joke. I think it was a joke. Either that, or I meanly laughed at a confused old lady. But I prefer to think that I laughed at the expense of the French couple.
The old Asian lady apparently hated San Francisco, told the French couple they were gorgeous and interrogated them about when they were having kids, and proudly announced she was taking a cab to Connecticut. And as it turns out, the old gal could book it. The second the armed door open, the lady was, garbage bag in hand, out of the plane.
She blew past the James Spader look-alike who had earlier thrown a huge fit over the return to the gate. He of course threw a fit again. He started with the “Excuse me” (yes, it is said with a capital E) and shouted (to no one. Seriously. She was gone.) “why are you in such a hurry?”
Now if I were an airport crazy, I might have punched him in the face. You are the one! You! Sitting there freaking out about nothing! You! But I was still in range of the grandpa tractor beam, so I wasn’t about to reveal my fluency in English. And, I love airports.
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