I don’t like airports. There was a time when I did, when travel was an adventure and an airplane flight still seemed a miracle. It lasted a long time.
When I was young, flying would take us to strange familiar places - to visit aunts and uncles and grandparents in Germany and Switzerland. When I got a little older, it would bring me home for the holidays.
Later I worked near the airport. I would sometimes go at lunch to watch jumbo jets take off, and slowly, improbably, ponderously land, almost motionless over the trees from the right angle.
Always when I flew I would ask for a window seat, to watch the geography - the geology roll by below us. To see clouds from inside and above. To watch the sun and moon a little longer before they set.
In airports I would watch the ebb and flow of people and planes like the tide. Families and friends left behind or come to meet - little dramas played out - at every gate.
Then for a couple of years I worked for a consulting company, and I took flying for granted. Airports and airplanes became part of the background of my job, an inconvenience, a waste of time, something to be minimized. I flew too often, so that no one came to see me off, and no one came to meet me. I was part of the background, too. I sat in aisle seats and read. I was tired.
When I started working for myself I traveled less, so flying became less tedious. But I also became more attached to home, so flying became more unnecessary, an irritant, taking me away from where I wanted to be.
Now I try to look past the homogeneity of airports, of airlines, of business travelers to see what individuality I can. I relish an oddball passenger nearby, or children who still behave like themselves no matter where they are, who can’t quite conceal their excitement, their happiness, or even their pain. Â
In the airport
Sealed but not protected
Sterile grime - high-pitched whine - jet fuel.
Washed but not clean
Stale air - fluorescent glare - gray skin.
Slept but not rested
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