| I
realized that I travel too much on the day I began tidying an airport
as if it were my bedroom. Unconsciously I picked up subscription
cards that had slipped from magazines, loose newspaper sections,
empty soda cups, and pitched them into the trash. Hey, it was
my
gate. I wanted it to look nice. The prim decisiveness of airports
feels deeply pleasing and restful. The anonymity, a gust of fresh
air. Neat signage, changing gate information, moving sidewalks,
minimalist trains “arriving in 2 minutes” -- delicious.
Why do so many people complain about airports? How hard is it to
show one’s ID? A few weeks ago, I was at La Guardia long
enough to start a small business. I know Houston’s Hobby
and Washington’s Reagan as well as the blocks around our
house. I love Chicago’s neon tunnel and the Tom’s Toothpaste
display in Portland, Maine. Portland’s airport, however,
does not sell Tom’s Toothpaste. In San Antonio we display
Mexican tile sinks. You could rally some Tom’s Toothpaste
and brush your teeth over them. I like putting things together,
imagining lives. Where are all these people going? So
many children traveling alone…. I know which stalls nationwide serve the
best sesame bagel, the tastiest swirled vanilla and chocolate frozen
yogurt. The Cincinnati chili stand has added vegetarian chili to
its spaghetti/chili/cheese list. I am such a frequent flyer, I
could become a flight attendant tomorrow with no training. Perhaps
this is insulting to the profession, surely attendants do many
crucial things we never see, but I find myself mouthing their safety
instructions perfectly and sometimes, after serving drinks at my
own home, I walk around with a trash bag and grim smile. It is
true that on all sides at every gate, frantic women and men are
punching numbers into little phones. Soon they will be condemned
to live two whole hours without calling anyone… this is
hard for them. It makes no difference whether I am headed to
Seattle,
Winnipeg, Toronto, Boise -- airport is the hopeful second home
place, the delicious enroute, the hour you could be anyone who
ever passed through. |
