Travel has been a part of my life since I was a little kid. I have always loved the getting up early in the morning, before everyone else was awake, and heading to the airport to wing my way to some exotic destination. I kind of felt like that time of the day belonged to me and the other travelers, that no one had any reason to be out that early and that I was somehow privileged to be up and leaving while everyone else was snoozing away, oblivious to the purple and orange of the early dawn and the strangely wet smell of the air.
Now that I am older, the fact is that getting up early still holds a little bit of an enchantment for me, though the flying has become pretty routine and often more of a pain in the legs than anything. Airports, however, still hold this weird fascination; a building in a strange land full of strange people all coming and going from all points of the globe. They all speak in strange accents – sometimes languages – and look at me the same was I do them when I open my mouth.
If you have been reading you know that recently I traveled to Texas. I did this through a somewhat circuitous route and was thus able to travel through a few different airports, some I had transited before, one I had not. What follows is my perceptions of those massive testaments to the human need to over-engineer buildings with a very straightforward purpose. I started out my voyage in Portland.
Here in my town we have a pretty small ,very uncomplicated airport. We got there at about 4:15 in the morning, because me and my brother are not small people, and being crammed into seats that are designed for the five foot 5 majority simply does not work. We proceeded onto my least favorite part: security.
I understand the need for security in airports. I enjoy not being blown up as much as the next person, but I always feel like while I am taking my computer out of it’s bag and undoing my belt the accordion of business travelers behind me is bunching up and starting to fall into general mayhem. So there is pressure there. Fortunately in PDX the staff was friendly, though I doubt they had the same feelings about being up early as I did. Another part of security that is a bit of a pain is their insistence that one not bring any liquids or creams onto the airplane, as if I am going to bring down a 150,000 lb airplane with my tube of sunscreen – which they took away, mind you… on the way to TEXAS – or mydeodorant, which I convinced the person to let me keep. They made me take off and X-Ray my sandles.
Flip flops. X-Rayed.
Obviously the security guards in the morning take their jobs with the type of gusto expected of someone who is simply looking for a way to stay awake. Of course the imposing glass-rimmed security managers station with the radios and the guns looking overtheir shoulders probably had some effect on the work effort of the white shirted TSA folks as well… whatever, I don’t think that a couple pieces of thick leather strapped to my feet are much of a threat.
Walking around the Portland Airport gives you a few strange impressions. The carpet is like something out of a 70’s psychedelics party, green with little pieces of red confetti on it. The celling makes you feel like you are walking under a giant conveyor belt, links in the chain that keeps traffic moving through the hallways and shops decorated likeIndian villages… no doubt in order to let the traveling masses know of our dedication to the remembrance of the Indian tribes that used to live on the land now occupied by our cities, towns and airport. We boarded our plane and I swiftly fell asleep… and wokeup floating down through the clouds over one of my most hated pieces of land in the world: Salt Lake City Utah.
Some background: I grew up in Salt lake City…well a little town north of there called Roy. I grew up in a catholic family. If that does not give you enough information as to my hatred of this place, it is a city devoid of anything pretty, save the Mormon temple/headquarters/fortress/whatever. It is a city beset by a lake so toxic and salty that the north half of it is not green or blue but a putrid, dead-looking red. It is a strange place full of strange people that don’t drink caffeine, have huge families and make you go to the liquor store to buy beer. There is no redeeming value to it that I can see, and I don’t care what anyone has to say about that. Every aspect of this transfers to the airport.
I will say though, that their airport is fairly easy to navigate, compared to the idiocy of places like SeaTac, Newark, or LAX. I honestly don’t have a lot to say about this airport as I was studiously staring at my shoes most of the time there, lest I see something to make me even more upset that I was in that city, despite that being good fodder for this hereblog. It would seem, actually, that here in Salt Lake they segregate based on non-sentience, as I saw a gurney locked in a steel cage the size of a closet with a huge padlock on it. I felt bad for the gurney, since due to the padlock it probably would never be freed in time to do it’s job. The padlock was emblazoned with a sticker that proclaimed tit to be the property of the “Salt Lake City Dept. of Airports.”
Department of airports? How many airports could this valley by the ‘lake’ have? The only other big one I know if is an Air Force base. I bet it’s not enough to necessitate an entire department of the city government to oversee their operation and maintenance. Stupid Utah. I was not the least bit unhappy to get on my plane and wing my way south, into the land of hats, June-Bugs and y’all.
I’ll explain the awesomeness of this in my next update.
Bangarang!
