Well, here I am reporting to you live from Laptop Lane in the mini-nation of Atlanta International Airport. With six hours until my flight, you'd think I'd leave this jungle, head to Peach Tree Street and Buckhead and hang with the local peeps, take in the hottness of Hotlanta as they say. But I don't know. I looked at a map of this airport and it reminds of a certain 17-mile stretch of a Pennsylvania highway system. I think I'll chill. I think I best remain inside the Homeland Security Checkpoints. Terminal A isn't so bad, I guess. No razor wire or anything. And they've got a rockin' foodcourt that smells like french fries. Hmm. I see a Chili's down the way.
My mid-morning decree: make your local airport imitate the place it's serving. Make Dallas a li'l gaudy, make Pittsburgh a li'l rough, make Salt Lake City a place to remember your dead ancestors. Make Harrisburg a place without any signs.
Unfortunately, most airports are like Phoenix. They're deceptively arid, confusing, and not very interesting. On the other hand, it's not easy being an airport.
If airports aren't always under construction, they probably should be.
I actually feel sorry for them. They're big and slow, you know? And being big and slow and not very attractive or interesting is a brutal combo for anyone. No, really. Trust me.
Airports are filled with people who don't want to be there: people waiting for their flight to depart so they can get out of there (me), people waiting for a loved one to arrive so they can get out of there, people waiting in line so they can get out of there, and people waiting for their shift to end so they can get out of there and get drunk.
Going by plane used to mean Mom making sure my three brothers and I were dressed in sport combinations: a navy blazer and gray pants. We were happy. But now -- like everything else -- a trip to the airport is like a trip to Costco. The parking and traffic are the same and people are pushy and don't trust anyone.
Lots of people appear dazed and tired and aloof. Some seem marginally irritated. Many are bored. And the cuter the sleeping child sleeps in the concourse, the louder he will wail when he's seated in the row behind you.
And why are all the good-looking travelers always flying some place I wasn't invited to?
