The Airport Paradox

I love airports. I hate airports. I love airports. I hate airports.

Yes, I have a "love/hate" relationship with airports. Over the last thirty-plus years, I've spent many hours of my life in these places of arrivals and depatures. It all started as a child in awe of travel to exotic places. . .and ended up with travel to places like Bristol, TN and South Bend, IN.

For reasons that escape me now, I would go with several friends to the airport in Miami to "hang out". Actually the airport book stores had the best selections in those days; so we would go off to buy books and end up staying to people watch and weave stories of where we were going and who we would pretend to be.

There is nothing like flying into a new city with a bird's eye view of the lives below. I remember arriving for the first time in places like Nice and Paris and Vienna, NYC, DC and San Francisco. Due to delays, I was on a first name basis with airline personnel in places like Boston, Philadephia, Atlanta and Chicago.

Business travel was so "glamourous" as a twenty-something; "pretentous" as a thrity-something; "laborious" as a forty-something; and, "robotic" at best these days. I have been through countless pieces of luggage and brief cases; my vehicles have spent more time in airport parking lots than in my own garage; I have walked through more security points without shoes than I care to remember; and, I have spent a small fortune on Airborne, bottled water, magazines and trail mix.

My first airline club was the Ionosphere of the now defunct Eastern Airlines. Those were the days of immediate upgrades, free cocktails and endless frequent flier miles. Every flight was an adventure and not the tedium of travel in these times.

In the early days there were no briefcases nor garment bags or carry-ons on wheels. My father used to call me a "pack mule". I would head off to the airport with my purse, briefcase and luggage all hanging from my shoulders and walking briskly in three-inch heels. A couple of years ago I was having trouble with my shoulder. After the ritual MRIs and arthograms, my orthopedist asked if I had played a lot of sports. Those who know me know how laughable that is. I had a "ripped" rotator cuff and labral tears. The result, we now believe, from the constant struggle of shoving carry-ons into the overhead compartments. I had "traveler's shoulder".

I can count on my hands the number of times I was greeted by friends or family upon arrival. The business travler was not met with warm hugs and flowers. And as a frequent flier, friends nor family felt it necessary to pick me up at the airport since I was so capable of finding my own way. If I was met, it was a barely slowing vehicle outside of baggage claim.

I have been "off the road" for the past year and a half. But I have spent a good deal of time picking people up at airports. I am overdue for a trip - a pleasure trip- to remind me once again that I love airports. . .or is it hate airports?
Safe travels. . .