I like an airport. I like what happens in airports, outside airports, I even like the Lyft rides to the airports. I liked the driver recently—late twenties, hushed talker—who revealed himself to be a private investigator when he wasn’t driving, who said, after learning a bit about what I do, that he’d be happy to profiled in GQ someday—I did not suggest this—if only because the thing was, bro, he just had too many stories, too many stories, about sneaky lawyers, corrupt cops, so many cheating wives and husbands he was hired to follow and photograph—did I want his business card?
I took his business card.
Inside an airport, I blink against the glare, I take shelter where I can. I pay a fee for a credit card that offers lounge access, so I order a glass of champagne and take a photo of it, and text it to an actress friend who’s similarly in airports frequently, the two of us pining for the day we’re in the same Delta lounge at the same time.
A few stories from airports visited in the past couple months.
Chicago O'Hare International Airport (ORD)
The older white man sitting next to me in the United Club was a long-haul trucker, three-time divorcé. Gray beard, wire glasses, flannel shirt, jeans. Arms crossed over his chest, self-contentedly. Maker’s and Coke, trucker hat: Seattle Mariners. He explained he lived in Washington and specialized in transporting military equipment, he couldn’t tell me what kind, it was classified, even to him, sometimes. Did he have kids? A daughter, Japanese-American, graduating this year from medical school at U-Dub (the University of Washington, he explained)—and oh yeah, he was proud, super proud, though she didn’t really talk to him anymore, the ex-wife had poisoned her against him, the daughter hadn’t invited him to graduation, but that was fine.
I was on the verge of expressing condolences before he launched into a theory involving a witch hunt against a former president overseen by a cabal of inside players, then stopped himself, leveling his gaze, to say, “You’re a journalist, I know where you stand. Give me fifteen minutes, I’ll change anybody’s mind, rock-solid.”
I gave him fifteen minutes. Mind unchanged.
Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport (ATL)
I was leaving the Delta Club, hurrying for a flight, when a woman turned in her seat, caught my eye, raised her eyebrows, said, “Excuse me, do you know the wifi password?”
It was Parker Posey, the actress. Pink-tinted eyeglasses and a white ruffled shirt with the collar turned up. Skinny blue jeans, black hair pulled back with a tie, white Tretorn sneakers.
“Sorry,” I said, processing the fact of who she was. “I don’t.”
Parker Posey turned away. A nearby businessman, blue blazer, gray slacks, seemingly not recognizing her, said pointedly with his chin jutting forward, “Cheers.”
She thanked him, turned around, and tapped it into her laptop. It’s true, “cheers” was the wifi password that month. Flustered, I’d forgotten.
Tokyo International Airport Haneda (HND)
I was hungry, waiting for a connecting flight to Fukuoka. I found a restaurant called Japan Gourmet Port. A machine took the order and three minutes later, a bowl of ramen and a glass of cold beer appeared on a tray. There’s nothing amazing about this, simply good food cooked fresh, but it was so good, so nourishing—I ate it sitting in an indoor garden next to a tiny waterfall, near two young families eating noodles—I felt deep-body rejuvenation, I felt connected to my fellow slurpers with their carry-on bags.
Fwiw, no flight I’ve flown anywhere boards or disembarks as quickly as a domestic Japanese flight.
Hollywood Burbank Airport (BUR)
A friend recently flew to France and recounted feeling apprehensive, on the flight to Paris, watching Blue Is the Warmest Colour from the seat-back display, given all the nudity. I said I knew the feeling, I’d recently flown Burbank to Las Vegas, while the man sitting next to me watched Red Sparrow—much Jennifer Lawrence nudity—and how it reminded me of a period, years ago, when I spent a month crisscrossing the country on a book tour and noticed several women, including a flight attendant, reading Fifty Shades of Grey on their Kindles, and then, a couple years later, on planes again, seeing several women watching Fifty Shades of Grey on their seat-back displays. My friend nodded in solidarity with the women. “I was just sitting there wondering, does everyone think I’m some kind of perv?”
Austin-Bergstrom International Airport (AUS)
Friday afternoon, rush hour, thousands of people moving through an airport. I was listening to music in my headphones, crossing a busy intersection between terminals—many people and shops, restaurants, security gates—when I noticed a harried man get off an elevator with four young children. The man wore sweats and a stuffed backpack, and carried a duffel in each hand. Each of the children had a backpack of their own, nearly their size. He was trying to shepherd them by leading, calling them to follow, when one, a boy of maybe five, peeled off toward a sunglass display.
The man and other kids didn’t notice. I stopped, turned off my music, and watched the boy. He picked up a pair of glasses, fiddled with them. He put them back and looked absently around. His family was already ten feet away, disguised by the crowd, he didn’t see them and sprinted in the opposite direction—so, I ran to the man, grabbed him and explained I just saw his kid take off running. His face paled, eyes panicked. What?! Which way?! He shouted at the other kids to stay, and now he took off running, me by his side, him calling the boy’s name loudly, over and over, until we spotted the kid, nearly thirty feet down the hall, still running, arms pumping, backpack flopping side to side. The man reached him, scooped him up and hugged him, then dashed back for his other children, shouting at me Thank you thank you while I followed at a close distance, just in case—but the other kids were fine, waiting nervously in a tiny knot as a stream of adults maneuvered around them.
Airports possess endlessness. They’re lonely universes, though the feeling’s not mandatory; they’re rarely beautiful, but they can be. The etiquette of the era demands we lock down, be inward, yield to the phone, but screw that—it’s maybe something I can’t explain exactly, but I often feel connected to other travelers, almost protective—the conspiracy theorists, the celebrities, the panicked families, the kinda pervs—at least until we part ways.
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Rosecrans is the author of Everything Now, winner of the California Book Award. His most recent novel, The Last Kid Left, was one of NPR’s Best Books of the Year. Titles mentioned in this newsletter are stored on a Bookshop list, which pays a commission for any books sold
I too feel connected to other travellers in airports AND ALSO hugely superior to folks who aren't in airports - smoothly jetting away to some exotic place like me (New Orleans to Key West; last leg on a puddle jumper!)