Frequent Flyer

I like airports. They are the one place that I have a legitimate excuse to wander aimlessly and ignore phone calls. For all anyone outside of the heavily secured bubble knows, I'm having a cavity search and can't be bothered or perhaps my plane has taken off and proceeded to crash into the Pacific Ocean. They can't be too mad, just mildly annoyed that their attempts to make contact and subsequent demands will be futile for the remainder of the day. They'll have to give up on their endeavor to get me to review banal, non-urgent paperwork or move a couch. They'll call someone else. There's always someone else. For that sort of thing anyway.

Ironically, one of the other reasons that I like airports is that I enjoy people watching. No one goes to an airport to escape people in general. You go to the airport to escape people you know. It's not that the people you know are inherently bad (or maybe they are). It's just that the people you know assume that you should be responsible for a variety of things that you don't want to do.

Really, the airport is the only place I get to be a bit careless and irresponsible under the conditions that I don't leave my luggage unattended and refrain from making a fuss when charged twenty dollars for a cheese sandwich. So, naturally, I wander around in circles purchasing overpriced cheese sandwiches, squeezing my "overnight" duffle through Hudson News stands, and spying on other irresponsible people nibbling Snickers bars and flipping through bridal magazines.

Some people complain about the waiting in airports. Nah. I only complain about waiting when I need to get something done. Because I want to get it done and not be doing anything somewhere else. In an airport, I'm not waiting, I'm relaxing.

Security line? Yes, please take my bag and ensure that no one slipped a bomb or a bottle of Gatorade into my toiletries pouch while I wasn't looking. I'll just stand here, barefoot, relaxing.

Line at Starbucks? Yes, thank you. I'll use this time to actually contemplate what I want for breakfast only to make a selection on a whim, because any kind of 5 a.m. coffee and breakfast tastes better when made by someone else.

My group is boarding last? No problem, I'll just settle into this roomy seating at the gate. The overnight duffle is really an oversized ottoman, so I'll just put my feet up. Also, since I did not agree to sell a kidney to procure Comfort Plus seating, my coffee will have time to cool from magma to a more tolerable temperature. Living. The Dream.

What's that you say? We've got a six hour delay because there's a supercell thunderstorm brewing? No one is going anywhere after all? Except me. My coffee is gone. It's five o'clock somewhere. I mean, it was just five o'clock here--a.m. or p.m. no one ever specifies. There's a dimly lit wine bar calling me from the bowels of this transitory oasis and some lonely person just waiting to tell me their life story over a glass of sauvignon blanc. That'll be far more engrossing than the sudoku puzzle waiting for me in the bookstore. Hang on, Pam--or whatever your name is--I'm coming! Those six hours will pass in a blur and I'll be right back where I started, in the roomy seating at the gate, my group finally about to board.

Now what? The jetway is clogged with people? That's fine, I'll take a gander at the faces of the souls with whom I might meet Death should the plane crash, again into the ocean--or perhaps a mountain range. Yes, yes, these are potentially the last faces I'll see when sitting back, waiting for my oxygen mask to drop. Better get a good look at 'em.