"I'm looking to the sky to save me" - Foo Fighters

To my fellow blog skimmers:
The following consists of some random + not-so-random thoughts on airports.

Paul, waiting for our flight back to school, 2006

Some of you know about my fascination with airports and flying. I can't say I know exactly when it started. Maybe when I was young traveling with my family.
My dad's family actually has a long history of airplanes, starting with my grandparents. Both of them worked for Eastern Airlines back in the day, my dad is an aerospace engineer, my cousin works for the TSA in Miami, and on and on. Needless to say, I feel like I know more about planes than the average person. And perhaps it's this snobbish attitude that assumes I belong in an airport more than other people that lends itself to appreciating the wild and craziness that airports contain.

Let's pretend I don't feel that way.

For me, the people are most interesting about airports. The fact that man-made contraptions are capable of going up 6 miles in the atmosphere at very high speeds and transport normal, every-day people (because when you think about it, aliens are usually the ones flying around in space craft?) to and from far away places (because us lowly humans are usually the ones creeping around in mundane spaces?) in a relatively short amount of time (why is the transporter not developed yet? scientists, we need you, don't fail us now) is nothing short of incredible; but it's the people that find themselves in these tension-filled "airports" (what a futuristic word) that make the best people watching experience anyone could ask for.

If you've ever asked me about flying before, it's possible you've heard my woes about the Vegas airport. Everything about this place gives me the creeps: the fact there are more slot machines than chairs, the oxygen bars, the alcohol bars, the endless rows of dirty magazines, the cheap lingerie store (which I am convinced is the only lingerie store in an airport), all the construction areas which are taking up even more chair spaces...and of course, the people that occupy themselves at said locations. When I get off the plane, all I can think about it keeping my eyes looking forward and claiming the first empty chair I see as it is bound to be the only empty chair within a few gates.
So I'm sitting here waiting to board, and I'm wondering what it is that makes everyone so interesting. And I think it's the fact that everyone at an airport has a goal, a destination. Everyone here has a purpose. Usually that purpose? Going somewhere. We're all just musing ourselves until we can go. A hive of human bodies trying to keep still, waiting.

Waiting. The verb implies boredom, does it not? Filling time until your plans can resume.

I'm always guessing where people are going. There are two very large black women conversing across the seats from me. Both look to be middle-aged, middle-classed, and put in the middle of an awful family situation based on what I can hear and I wonder, "How did these women meet? Are they sister-in-laws? Actual sisters? Why Vegas? Why now?" There's a young woman, probably 18-ish with a tiny young boy she's trying to hush in the corner. She yells for her mom. I have a feeling this isn't her younger brother. Then there's the lone business man sitting a seat next to me. He's wearing sneakers, dress pants, a sweater and blazer. I wonder who dresses him. He's listening to someone speak to him in his blue tooth with his arms folded and eyes pinched shut like he's trying very hard to listen. I wonder if I've ever had that expression on my face in my life when trying to listen to someone.  Is he listening to his wife? No wedding band. Maybe his son? His business partner? Maybe he's getting fired over the phone? Questions seem to fill my brain faster than I can think up an answer.

In short, airports = Martha's breeding grounds for inspiration. Not only am I coming up with great characters for unwritten short stories in my head, I am also thinking about worst case scenarios. I think it may have be all the hype about security, but most of the time I mentally prepare myself to die every time I fly. I'm not scared of planes per se, I don't get butterflies, I don't freak out in any way really...I just double check to make sure I'm ready to go if the worst happens. In a calm collected way, I do my assessment: "Ok, so in case I need to get out quick, definitely don't sit next to that fat girl...or that old guy...Do sit next to that athletic built man or small child." I also secretly make friends (or enemies) with everyone on my flight. If the plane goes down, I will make sure this handful of people gets out safely first, personally assist those people, make sure the annoying man is last in line out the emergency exit...knock out that lady...share the gospel with that family in paradise...grab some extra peanuts for the huge blow-up slide ride out of the plane...the list goes on. Just in case you are ever on a flight with me, know that I have categorized you in some way or another.

I don't think I'm the only one thinking about death in an airport either. Maybe that's why a lot of people are so somber. Nevermind the weariness of traveling, being amidst strangers, or just trying hard to find some peace. They are just afraid of dying.

People of all shapes, sizes, backgrounds, etc. all squished in one tiny, dirty airport, bombarded by coin slot noises, excessive advertisements, overhead speaker systems announcing flights...I think airports have to be one of the most random samples of people. If I was going to do a study where I needed a random sample of people to fill out a survey, I'd definitely go to the airport.

We're all just waiting around, anyway.

Taken on my way to LAX, about 7 AM