It’s airport weekend for
me!
Saturday I spend the
entire morning carting my bro to Beverly airport and back so he can get
re-certified with his pilot’s license.
The cloud cover makes it impossible for me to watch the flight training
as my brother and his instructor take the Piper up through a break and into the
sunny skies above. I go shopping,
instead, so it’s win-win for us both.
Sunday I pick up some pals
who are flying back from England. The
plan is to go into Logan Airport and do a drive-by on the upper ramp where the
departures are to avoid the arrivals crowd below at terminal E. This plan would be flawless except that I
have not driven to the airport in decades.
The last time I went to Logan, I was a disinterested passenger, and we
arrived via route 16 (which is easy).
This time, I’m behind the wheel and coming in from I-93.
Oh, sure, there are signs
everywhere (without much warning), but the traffic is flying through the
airport ramps, and I’m panicking because I know if I screw this up, I am doomed
to go back and forth through the toll booth like Slim Pickens and his cowboys
in Blazing Saddles, and I do not have
a shitload of dimes with me today.
I accidentally and luckily
find Lot #1, which apparently is the lot for the international terminal. I jaw for a few minutes with the attendant,
who assures me that I am in the right location but apologizes because no matter
how long I will be here, the minimum charge for the lot is for two hours
($14). My plan is to sit in the cell
phone lot until my pals text me, but I cannot find the damn cell phone
lot. I decide that my sanity is worth
$14, so I pull into the lot.
I park in a pull-through
spot directly at the crosswalk and the main door #E106. I collect my book, my notebook, my water, my
pocketbook, and my keys. I figure it
will take me at least fifteen minutes to figure out where I am. Lord knows nothing I do is ever easy, so I’ve
no reason to expect this adventure will be, either.
I walk the few steps from
my car to the doors and come across an information desk. “I hate to sound stupid,” I say, “but I’m looking
for an international arrival.” I tell
him the airline, which I know has just landed, and he assures me that I am in
the right place. I am standing mere feet
from where all the international flight passengers will spill into the terminal
area. I turn and look back out the door
across the street to my car in the lot.
Bingo.
Honestly, this all seems
too easy.
My friends text me that
they have disembarked from the plane. I
text back saying I am in the waiting area.
“Get ready for a big hug from us,” they text back. This is funny since none of us could be considered
warm nor fuzzy. I smile at the people I
see who really are giving and receiving greetings hugs. So not
happening, I chuckle, knowing my buddies are enjoying the same joke.
I know it will be at least
an hour to move my friends through customs, so I find a nice, empty, quiet spot
amongst the ample seating area which, for some strange reason, does not have a
single seat facing the doors to where the passengers will spill out. Every seat faces the street in an attempt, I
assume, to make arriving passengers able to see rides and shuttles. No matter.
It beats the registry where people have to sit in each other’s laps for
space.
Anyone who knows me also
knows that I am flypaper for freaks. No
sooner do I get comfortable with my book when a woman and her child roll their
luggage practically over my feet and sit right next to me. (You know the people: you’re all alone in a
movie theater when in walks one person and that person sits in the adjacent
seat.) She is speaking a European
language I don’t totally recognize. Her
child companion gets up and starts running full tilt through the terminal. She whips out her phone and very loudly
starts pressing buttons.
BOOOOPEEEE BOOOOOP BOOOOPEEEEEEE BOOOOP
BOOOOOOOOOP!!!!!
Truly? You just have
to sit next to me and do this? I am in
no fucking mood for this, so I shoot her a disgusted side glance, shake my
head, then get up and move back two rows to another completely unoccupied set
of seats. The moment she gets up to
chase the kid, a group of newly arrived passengers takes over the row and her
seat (not like the rest of the waiting area is full or anything), rolling her
luggage aside.
I discover that I am
sitting very close to a moving sculpture that is encased in plexi-glass. Suddenly, a guy leans back, back, back,
bending right over my head to take a picture of the machine with his full-size
camera, as if moving to a better location or another angle isn’t nearly as
great a view as a shot from right where my face is.
Another friend starts
texting me to see what I am doing. I
text her back and tell her my tales of being freak flypaper, for she has had
her share of flypaper experiences, as well.
She texts me back something that I find hilarious, so I start
giggling. Giggles become belly laughs,
and soon my entourage of strangers moves far away from me. No one wants to sit near the crazy lady who
is amusing herself with her phone.
Aha! I have
finally discovered the secret to sitting by myself! Victory!
I will say that the music
here is boss, everything from Louis Armstrong to Luke Bryan and anything at all
in between. Every time an announcement
is made, I feel depressed that the music has stopped if even for a few
moments. It doesn’t help that I cannot
understand a damn word any of the announcers spews. I am not gifted in languages, so to me it’s
all gobbly-gooky-mumbo-jumbo, which just adds to the crazy cacophony of the
airport.
Much as I complain about
people attaching themselves to my personal space, I admit this place is
fantastic for people-watching. I’m
liking it better than North Station – less hobos and more movement. For all the people sitting on the benches
waiting for trains at The Garden, there are just as many people here who are
all wound up and running loose after being cooped up on their long
international flights. This place truly
is a trip. Hahahaha, a trip, get it?
My friends arrive, and we
do the fake hug thing. To everyone
around us, we look like one happy little crowd, but we laugh at the awkwardness
of it all. It’s almost like they really
are family; my own siblings and I have mastered the art of the air hug, so
anyone who can do the same is revered in our circle.
I prepay my parking pass,
fully expecting the required two-hour minimum, but I am only charged $6. I am nervous going through the gate that I
will get bagged for the rest of the money.
I mean, I did agree to the two-hour $14 minimum when I parked
there. No alarms go off, and, after a heart-stopping
few long moments, the gate opens and we’re off.
Two airports in two days
is about all I can tolerate, but someday I might spend the day working my way
around the airport until I have mastered the place. It seems like it should be easy enough, and
there is plenty of fodder here. Besides,
I still need to figure out where that damn cell phone lot is located.
