At the airport

Airports bother me. I don’t know why they bother me. They bother me the same way that hospitals bother me. Except I know why hospitals bother me, so I suppose it’s not like that at all.

The people in airports bother me. Everyone is in such a hurry, such a rush. They’ve got no time to smile, no desire to strike up a random conversation with a complete stranger. The cashiers and workers in the shops even paint their faces with a sorrowful frown. When will this day be over? they seem to be thinking.

Hollywood depicts the airport as such a painfully happy place where everyone is nothing but sparkling smiles and glowing faces. Is that really the way it is? I don’t fly all that often, so maybe it’s just me, but I never see that side of airports. All I see is the hundreds of busy, hustle-and-bustle type people, rushing for their plane, rushing for their luggage, rushing for a cab, rushing to be anywhere but where they are, wishing they were going anywhere but where they are heading.

I wouldn’t even be this upset if their was some emotion at this bloody airport. I look around and I see no signs of human life, no feeling. The floor is white, the ceiling is white, the walls–while I will admit they are somewhat furnished and I do admire the artwork–are white. Virgin Mobile’s bright red booth shines like a beacon calling out into the night sea, luring its prey to enter into it’s warm, melodic atmosphere.

But do we answer? Of course not. We sit at tables sipping our café mochas and iced cappuccinos with such a grim look on our faces that that Virgin Mobile booth is probably thinking, I’m glad you’re not singing and dancing with me between these walls. I sure would hate to be as unhappy as you.

I can appreciate being sad or upset at an airport. You’re losing the ones you love for God knows how long. You’re depressed that it’s not you getting on that plane and going somewhere exotic like California or Palm Springs. Or you are going to someplace that exotic and maybe you’re scared of flying. Fine. Be scared. Be affectionate. Be heartbroken. Be terrified. Be something but miserable.

Even as I sit here typing out my soul, my brows form a disgusted downward arch. What am I so unhappy about? I’m going home. It’s Christmas. I just ate a wonderful ham and cheese sandwich. Do I miss that sandwich? Is that why I’m so sad? I doubt it. I really, truly do.

I try to be that smiling face in the mosaic of frustrated minds, but sometimes I just don’t want to be. I want to blend in, go with the current, be angry, be upset, be frustrated. Pretend I have somewhere to go, something to do. Pretend that it’s urgent, that I must get there right away. Say, Get out of my way, world! I’m in a hurry. But I can’t because I’m not.

I’m not in a hurry, I’ve no place to go, and I sure am not looking forward to that two and a half hour flight to Red Lake, Thunder Bay, and probably three more unannounced stops that they fail to write down on your ticket. I’m not excited to have to curl up with an hour long leg cramp because my laptop doesn’t fully fit under the seat in front of me or try to think of ways to amuse myself, all of which include a table, and realize that there is no table on the back of that seat either.

No, my next two and a half hours will be spent staring at the most ugly maroon, orange, blue, and red weaved curtain I have ever seen in my life and wonder why on earth the pilots try to cloak themselves behind such a hideous shroud when we can see through on all four edges anyway.

Maybe airports bother me, but I sure should come here more. At least then I get some work done. At least here I can actually find something to write about.