Zombies in the Airport!
Written at 8:30 PM, 8/20/06 in Portland, Oregon.
Airports remind me of graveyards. No—not in some sort of sick, morbid, fatalistic sense. They remind me of graveyards because of their atmosphere of dark, quiet solemnity. I am currently in the airport waiting. I have roughly another two hours before my flight boards. Packing and preparations went relatively smoothely, and I seem to have only forgotten one thing (at least that I’ve realized). The last few days have been occupied with a constant veneer of busyness. Although I’ve found time to spend with friends, I have felt as though I’ve been subject to a steady onslought of “need to dos” and “don’t forgets” inside my head. All that is done now, though, for only minutes ago my grandparents—after so kindly driving me up to the Portland Airport and treating me to dinner—departed, leaving me to strip clothes and pride as I went through airport security. All right, so it wasn’t that bad, but there is a sort of inherent indignity in removing one’s shoes and sifting through one’s bag in an attempt to satisfy the monolithic list of “DO NOT BRINGs” and “RESTRICTED ITEMs.”
Anyway, I think the reason I associate airports and graveyards concerns the staff. Now don’t get me wrong, I think airports are filled with hard-working, friendly people, yet there’s a certain sense of hopelessness. Like, “Is this as good as it gets?” I’m probably just crazy, and it doesn’t help that I have this certain serendipitous tendency to find myself at airports in the late or early hours. Thus most of the airports occupants—let us call them “Zombies” for convenience’s sake—are sleepy, grumpy, tired, or otherwise seeking to slake their hunger for human flesh. They maraude about the airport, dark circles hung beneath their eyes, grunts and groans escaping their grimacing mouths, watching the black, empty seats—let us call them tombstones…for convenience’s sake, of course. Like some ill-conceived George Romiro knockoff, the late night/early morning airport experience is a delve into the abyssal depths of human psychology and horror—human shells stretched to their limits by travel delays and bad coffee. Now, having said all this, I maintain that I still do not regard airports as some nihlistic, 9th Circle of Dante’s Inferno kind of place. I enjoy them. Yes, indeed, I enjoy them. I feel a sense of comaraderie with the zombies. I’m about to go 20,000 feet into the air, travel at 600 mph with a group of complete strangers (also zombies) in a tin cup with 5000 moving parts—and I’m damn well going to enjoy it. They (the zombies) are all going places—and so am I. They’re tired, cranky, and craving human flesh—and so am…Okay, well maybe not that last one. Anyway, the point is, I’m going to Europe, and no amount of delays, disgruntled zombies, or red-colored bold restrictions is going to stop my exuberance. See y’all on the other side.
Tags: Airports, Europe, Flying, Travel, United States
gregbilsland
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