in transit

I’ve thought about airports quite a bit for the past few years. What was at first a fascination with the ability to travel thousands of miles away eventually turned into a love-hate relationship, followed by a love-mostly hate relationship, and has currently resolved itself into a love-still hate-fascination affair. The love of traveling collides with the hassle of waiting, delays, customs, more waiting, security checks, last minute gate changes and more waiting. Sort of makes you think that Kerouac had a good idea with hitchhiking. Dangerous, true, but at least he was never bored.
I think my curiosity with airports first developed when I flew to Milan out of JFK a year and a half ago. I sat around the international terminal, watching supermodels and jetsetters hustle around all suntanned and apathetic, obviously delayed with their flights to locales glorified in in-flight magazines and the Travel Channel. It really did fascinate me in a way—the fact that their presence was necessitated somewhere far away, somewhere warmer, sleeker, sexier than where they came from. I was the simple kid from suburban New York, guitar in hand, clueless as to what he was doing, only thinking about his hotel reservation and the passport in his back pocket. Everything seemed a little bigger; JFK was less of an airport hub and more of a (dare I say?) social scene.
Doing the cruise ship job, airports are inevitable. They’re one of your last beacons of dry land and your first light at the end of the contract as you go home. I suppose in a way the downtime between flights and connections can be a bit of a cleansing experience. You’re finally back in the “real” world, walking shoulder to shoulder with businessmen, families, college students, restless loaners, people with their own stories and reasons for getting from place to place. For me, it helps clear my head a bit, shows that I’m separated from the ship, from looking at people as either co-workers, passengers, or the fortunate few who don’t need to worry about all-aboard times.
Today in the Charlotte/Douglass International airport I ran into a sweetheart of a seeing eye dog in training, a lounge pianist playing Amy Winehouse, an impeccably dressed British gentleman, an angry businessman with the strangest bald spot I’ve ever seen, and two full grown adult women, twins, skipping to their gate as if they were pretending to be fairies. I feel like now would be the moment to make some grand statement about opening your eyes to what’s around you, but….I hate clichés, and this is one of the biggest offenders of them all. Entertaining, absolutely true, and a welcome change to seeing grumpy passengers holding up lunch lines and not applauding during shows, but shouldn’t your eyes be opened all the time anyway?
As I walked from terminal to terminal today to meet my connecting flight I ran into another guy with a guitar. We exchanged the universal greeting for crossing musicians (sight head nod) and walked our separate ways. The observing outsider could see it as the working, traveling musicians acknowledging and respecting each other for a brief moment before we carried on into whatever gig lie next.
A nice sentiment, but bullshit nonetheless. He was walking out of the bar that I walked into. Beer and free wireless are great selling points for my people.

Cheers.