Airport '07
I love to travel. I love the act of making lists of things to take, buying new bathing suits or shoes or packs of gum, getting my suitcase out of the back closet and finding old ticket stubs and phone numbers scribbled on the backs of napkins from restaurants in foreign cities. I love going on-line and researching the best flight times at the lowest prices. I love the act of packing. And I love, love, love going to the airport.
I find airports to be the most fasinating capsules of human behavior. Right up there with the mall. You can watch all aspects of the human condition at the airport. Sadness, happiness, desolation, despair, elation, ambivilence. All of it on display for everyone within 50 feet to watch. And, if you're lucky, you can drink beer while you're watching. It is right up there with E!
I just set off for a long-overdue vacation and, therefore, got to go to the airport the other day. Our little airport isn't particularly spectacular with respect to people-watching. We're midwestern and conservative and not particularly effusive with our emotions. You rarely see men with flowers or families with balloons waiting to greet someone coming home from foreign travels there, although I imagine we've sent more than our fair share of folks to Iraq to work for Blackwater. There's only one bar. One Cinnabon. One newspaper shop.
But then we flew into Detroit.
The Northwest terminal at the Detroit airport is excellent. All brand new and shiny, filled with the promise of many more years of operating in the black. A pipe-dream for Northwest, really. But with good restaurants.
My travel companion is a member of the World Perks so we decided that, rather than pay for overpriced alcohol at the Bennigan's by our gate, we'd go to the World Perks lounge. Wow, what a barrel of laughs those folks are. While we did manage to get free samples of Zicam for our incipient colds, the beer was flat and the company dismal. Instead of a bunch of fun, happy people going on tropical vacations, we were surrounded by businessmen planning their Super Bowl parties via cell phone. Loudly. And people who put their luggage on the chairs next to them in order to keep anyone from sitting there. Even though the place was totally crowded. I HATE those people. I managed to break a glass on the way out of the place because, as we all know, if there is glass to be broken, I'll break it.
We ended up in the fabulous Jose Cuervo eating/drinking establishment, eating chips and very strange salsa, watching the people at the bar. The crowd was more our style--people heading out for vacation, people hanging out with their friends, people without briefcases. So we sat there and did what we do: watch people.
There was the bar fly. Bleach blonde. Leopard print shirt. Lots of bronze-looking jewelry. She looked like an extra from an Amazon woman cable tv show. We thought she was with the Dennis Hopper look-alike circa Easy Rider, he of the handlebar moustache and the long leather duster. But he took his little wheeled bag off and left her there to talk to the gay chef who looked like he just jumped off the Lucky Charms cereal box.
Then there were the Bosnian mafia types. You know what I'm talking about. Two guys, crew cuts, former Yugoslav army guys, wearing Adidas sweatsuits and dress shoes. Walking aimlessly around the airport, looking for...something? Someone? Their next job? Daniel Craig? We never figured it out.
There were the typical packs of teenage Asian girls, all dressed alike with Hello Kitty! bookbags and multi-colored knee socks, using electronic equipment I couldn't begin to determine the uses of. Groups of frat boys with hats on backwards. Lots of Ohio State sweatshirts, strangely.
I saw the guy across the concourse.
"He looks like a repo man," I said to my friend, nodding at him.
Big guy, blonde hair that hadn't been cut in easily eight months. Black leather jacket that just escaped from the interior of a trucker's cab. Long, baggy pants. He looked like he should be working in the back room of...something. Somewhere unsavory. He looked like the henchman of the deal-cutter in the movies. The not-bright one in the crew. The red-shirt that gets shot first, but acts as the muscle beforehand. He was reminiscent of Pig Pen, in that you could tell, just from looking at him that he and Suave are not well-aquainted.
After 45 minutes, during which time they wouldn't let us leave the boarding area for fear we'd all run to the bar and do shots of tequila, we boarded. My friend and I waited until almost the end of boarding, knowing that they wouldn't leave without us, and talked to the hotel builder we'd met who'd spent the day flying around the country in a vain attempt to get to Florida to build a La Quinta somewhere near Orlando. We knew we were near the back of the plane, but who really needs to sit there for 15 minutes while everyone else gets on the plane?
We finally board. We walk. All the way. To the very back. Three seats on either side of the aisle. We're sitting next to each other. Guess who's sitting in the window seat?
Repo Man.
He's from Florida. Going home from Cleveland. We promptly wiped Vicks VapoRub under our noses and fell asleep for the remainder of the flight.
Coming soon: The Search for the Perfect Salad; Why Are All Men Single in Florida; and Evesdropping for Pros.
I find airports to be the most fasinating capsules of human behavior. Right up there with the mall. You can watch all aspects of the human condition at the airport. Sadness, happiness, desolation, despair, elation, ambivilence. All of it on display for everyone within 50 feet to watch. And, if you're lucky, you can drink beer while you're watching. It is right up there with E!
I just set off for a long-overdue vacation and, therefore, got to go to the airport the other day. Our little airport isn't particularly spectacular with respect to people-watching. We're midwestern and conservative and not particularly effusive with our emotions. You rarely see men with flowers or families with balloons waiting to greet someone coming home from foreign travels there, although I imagine we've sent more than our fair share of folks to Iraq to work for Blackwater. There's only one bar. One Cinnabon. One newspaper shop.
But then we flew into Detroit.
The Northwest terminal at the Detroit airport is excellent. All brand new and shiny, filled with the promise of many more years of operating in the black. A pipe-dream for Northwest, really. But with good restaurants.
My travel companion is a member of the World Perks so we decided that, rather than pay for overpriced alcohol at the Bennigan's by our gate, we'd go to the World Perks lounge. Wow, what a barrel of laughs those folks are. While we did manage to get free samples of Zicam for our incipient colds, the beer was flat and the company dismal. Instead of a bunch of fun, happy people going on tropical vacations, we were surrounded by businessmen planning their Super Bowl parties via cell phone. Loudly. And people who put their luggage on the chairs next to them in order to keep anyone from sitting there. Even though the place was totally crowded. I HATE those people. I managed to break a glass on the way out of the place because, as we all know, if there is glass to be broken, I'll break it.
We ended up in the fabulous Jose Cuervo eating/drinking establishment, eating chips and very strange salsa, watching the people at the bar. The crowd was more our style--people heading out for vacation, people hanging out with their friends, people without briefcases. So we sat there and did what we do: watch people.
There was the bar fly. Bleach blonde. Leopard print shirt. Lots of bronze-looking jewelry. She looked like an extra from an Amazon woman cable tv show. We thought she was with the Dennis Hopper look-alike circa Easy Rider, he of the handlebar moustache and the long leather duster. But he took his little wheeled bag off and left her there to talk to the gay chef who looked like he just jumped off the Lucky Charms cereal box.
Then there were the Bosnian mafia types. You know what I'm talking about. Two guys, crew cuts, former Yugoslav army guys, wearing Adidas sweatsuits and dress shoes. Walking aimlessly around the airport, looking for...something? Someone? Their next job? Daniel Craig? We never figured it out.
There were the typical packs of teenage Asian girls, all dressed alike with Hello Kitty! bookbags and multi-colored knee socks, using electronic equipment I couldn't begin to determine the uses of. Groups of frat boys with hats on backwards. Lots of Ohio State sweatshirts, strangely.
I saw the guy across the concourse.
"He looks like a repo man," I said to my friend, nodding at him.
Big guy, blonde hair that hadn't been cut in easily eight months. Black leather jacket that just escaped from the interior of a trucker's cab. Long, baggy pants. He looked like he should be working in the back room of...something. Somewhere unsavory. He looked like the henchman of the deal-cutter in the movies. The not-bright one in the crew. The red-shirt that gets shot first, but acts as the muscle beforehand. He was reminiscent of Pig Pen, in that you could tell, just from looking at him that he and Suave are not well-aquainted.
After 45 minutes, during which time they wouldn't let us leave the boarding area for fear we'd all run to the bar and do shots of tequila, we boarded. My friend and I waited until almost the end of boarding, knowing that they wouldn't leave without us, and talked to the hotel builder we'd met who'd spent the day flying around the country in a vain attempt to get to Florida to build a La Quinta somewhere near Orlando. We knew we were near the back of the plane, but who really needs to sit there for 15 minutes while everyone else gets on the plane?
We finally board. We walk. All the way. To the very back. Three seats on either side of the aisle. We're sitting next to each other. Guess who's sitting in the window seat?
Repo Man.
He's from Florida. Going home from Cleveland. We promptly wiped Vicks VapoRub under our noses and fell asleep for the remainder of the flight.
Coming soon: The Search for the Perfect Salad; Why Are All Men Single in Florida; and Evesdropping for Pros.
posted by Miss Head at
6:30 AM
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