| Image via TravelPod |
Dystopia, Airport Gate E34 The devolution begins with the removal of shoes and belts at security, which makes me feel like I’m about to jump into the ball pit at McDonald’s. Then they take away our sharp objects and allow us only a sippy-cup’s worth of liquids. Right out of the chute, I feel like a 7-year-old. So last week when our flight out of Atlanta was delayed, then delayed again (and again), then canceled altogether at 1:30 a.m., marooning us at the airport, I’d already been stripped of the maturity that enables me to cope with such injustice. Then there was my poor wife, now faced with an all-nighter at the airport with an ornery, hungry kid tugging at her sleeve (me). A storm had grounded the flights of approximately nine million other passengers as well, so Concourse C became a land rush for sleeping spots. My wife and I scouted out some prime carpet, but were turned away by the night cleaners, who literally shook people awake to pass a vacuum underneath them. We wandered off in search of provisions, happening upon a delicious and sensibly priced deli. (Wait, that was a mirage; we paid $5.47 for a bag of Sour Patch Kids.) Eventually we settled into a cozy nook beside the counter of the airline that treated us rather poorly in the ordeal. (Think of the fourth letter of the Greek alphabet.) At some point a hapless fourth-letter-of-the-Greek-alphabet employee produced a box of blankets. I doubt he made it out of that frenzy alive; all I know is the last blanket was swiped out my wife’s hands by some neanderthal. We made do with a bedroll of T-shirts and socks. We were totally unprepared for the frigid climate of Concourse C. I think I saw some businessmen huddled around a fire in a barrel next to Sharper Image. I tied my suitcase to my leg with a belt in case scavengers came sniffing around. Around 3 a.m. snores began to echo down the corridor; all was eerily quiet. All except the 30 televisions, that is, which alternately blared CNN and an infomercial for the airport’s $1-per-minute sleeping pods. As dawn broke, the herd began to stir, creaking with stiff joints and shaking off the urge to strangle CNN’s John King or our gate agent from the night before, whoever we saw first. This is why I like to bring a copy of “Lord of the Flies” on flights — not as a piece of fiction to pass the time; more like an instruction manual. |
