Dayton to
Atlanta. 6/9/12
There’s
something right about flying over rural America – something that appeals to
clichéd ideals of American life: vast stretches of verdant farmland,
symmetrical grooves of plowed or planted plots, apportioned and divided somehow
– by color, meandering rivers, forests, odd, top-down topography of Appalachian
highlands – all giving the feeling that ours is an infinite expanse of healthy,
rich greens and browns. The human
elements also speak to our ideal notion of ourselves: the sports complexes with
baseball diamonds clustered side by side to make the shape of daisies; college
and high school football stadiums, empty and full of the promise of the next
game, the next season; the pools (the easiest man-made structure to spot) of various
shapes, sizes, and shades of blue evoking wealth and refreshment; and even the
occasional quarry or strip mining excavation hints at sweat, strength, and
honest work.
The clean
lines at 30,000 feet make any time spent in an airport that much more jarring –
especially in a major urban hub. Dayton, by the way, has
been impossibly pleasant and easy every time I’ve flown in to or out of there.
From Jerry the long-term-parking shuttle driver, with his affected drawl and
country charm that, regardless of any artifice, brightened our caffeine and
sleep-deprived morning that began at 4AM. Check in was quick and easy, as was
security. However, on the concourse, and in the claustrophobic crush of
boarding, riding, and departing a plane, there is a pressing sense that we are,
despite our ideals, an inherently hurried, harried, and anxious people.
I don’t
think I’m exempt from this assessment. What more reason to try to drop out of
the world, into a beautiful place, with my best friend.
Atlanta airport: It’s 10 am, and the “Victory Lane” bar on concourse ‘C’ is
shoulder to shoulder, and most of the seats on the floor are filled. Almost
everyone is drinking. I can’t decide if
this is pathetic, or awesome. Oh, and
see above.
Nassau airport: This, so far, has been one of those
experiences that, though not unpleasant, got progressively less pleasant as it
went along. The views of the
beach-skirted islands and infinite shades of blue ocean was a real thrill for
someone who hasn’t been south of Georgia in over 20 years. From the tarmac, it’s clear that the airport
is under construction / renovation, but where we taxi to looks brand spankin’
new. As we walk in, it’s quite beautiful for an airport, I mean really swanky, and
I just assume that all of the construction and dreariness that I’d heard about
the Nassau
airport had been solved. Then we kept walking…and walking…and clean lines,
chrome, and glass became a long sheetrock hallway with dangling work lights
illuminating our way, worn, chipped and cracked concrete underneath our feet.
But then, a light at the end of the tunnel? YES! We arrive in customs, in a
very large room with a live Bahamian band playing in one far empty corner. Nice
touch, really. Slip on over to the “Family Islands”
line and essentially get waved through into baggage, where there’s a Bacardi
booth giving away rum punch. On an empty stomach, on four hours worth of sleep
– hits the spot. Get luggage, get waived
through a second round of customs, and then wander a dreary corridor into
“domestic departures.” A ha, this is what folks have been talking about. It’s
pretty gloomy and grimy, and doesn’t instill you with confidence of an
operation designed and run by the Swiss, but we drop our bags off at the
counter, make sure that the right tags get put on our luggage, grab some salads
at a stand-up Wendy’s, go through security again, and settle down into a large,
quiet lounge, with a TV somewhere from which I’ve overheard a soothing woman’s
voice say both “Jesus” and “penis” in the last five minutes. Back to blogging. It’s almost time for our
little plane to board….and no, it’s not.
Plane’s delayed 40 minutes. I
find I’m surprisingly at peace with this……mostly…
No comments:
Post a Comment