The airport. A monument to mankind’s ability to take something majestic—flight, freedom, the sheer glory of defying gravity—and turn it into a sort of bureaucratic cattle prod run by people who think “urgent” is a type of seasoning.
Let’s start with getting there. You set off three hours early, because apparently, even though your flight is at midday, the airport functions on some kind of feral squirrel logic where time is optional and panic is mandatory. You arrive, of course, only to be herded into a line that appears to have been designed by a sleep-deprived raccoon with a grudge against geometry.
Security. Ah yes. That cheerful gauntlet of latex gloves and unblinking suspicion. You remove your shoes like a naughty schoolboy, strip your belt off like you’re auditioning for a low-budget Magic Mike sequel, and then awkwardly shuffle forward, holding your pants up with one hand while trying to explain to a man with a badge and a thousand-yard stare that yes, your toothpaste is indeed less than 100ml, and no, you are not planning to hijack the flight using dental hygiene products.
Then the scan. You step into a machine that looks like it was stolen from Star Trek but functions like it was built by a guy named Bob in his garden shed. It beeps. Why? Nobody knows. Could be a zipper. Could be your soul crying out. Out comes the glove. There goes your dignity.
And then… the gate. A vast, existentially bleak arena filled with people who have absolutely had it. You’ve got Karen from Duluth loudly explaining to her mother that her flight was supposed to leave yesterday, a man eating what looks like a lasagna out of a plastic bag, and three guys in matching tank tops clearly going to Cancun to commit crimes against sobriety and public decency.
Now you encounter the flight attendant who, for reasons known only to the dark gods of budget airlines and polyester, is already upset and barking instructions like someone who’s just learned about volume and is determined to test it. They begin exercising what can only be described as power tripping—minuscule power… largely just tripping. It’s like giving a traffic cone a badge and telling it it’s in charge of morale. These are the sort of people who say things like, “You need to comply,” and “Sir, that’s not allowed,” as though they were enforcing international law and not just telling you to stow a neck pillow. “Oh you shouldn’t explain to me your point,” they say, “because I am the point itself!” Makes your head explode.
Boarding begins. By which I mean: boarding is announced, and suddenly everyone becomes a contestant in a game show called “Get to the Gate First or Die Trying.” Never mind that you’re in Group 9. Never mind that the plane is still being fueled by, you guessed it, Bob himself who is visibly asleep next to a fuel truck. No, you’re all-in on this race, elbowing pensioners and knocking over toddlers like you’re storming the beaches of Normandy.
Once on board, you find your seat—which is now legally classified as “compact torture.” You wedge yourself in, knees under your chin, elbows tucked like you’re playing hide-and-seek with your own armpits, and try to make peace with the fact that you paid several hundred dollars to be this uncomfortable.
But just as you start to relax, thinking perhaps—just perhaps—this won’t be so bad, someone opens a tuna sandwich. Someone always opens a tuna sandwich. And now the cabin smells like Poseidon’s butt crack and there’s nothing to be done. You are trapped in a pressurized tin can at 35,000 feet with a fishmonger’s picnic.
And in between all this, let’s not forget the joy of the connecting flight dash. You’ve landed late, obviously, because why not, and now you’ve got 14 minutes to make it from Gate A1 to Gate Z99, which—according to airport signage—is “just a short walk through purgatory.” So you run. You sprint like a man whose pants are on fire, weaving between luggage and spilled pretzels, only to be thwarted by a wall of people moving at the speed of continental drift. These aren’t travelers. These are zombies in yoga pants, pondering their life choices. You scream internally as they block your path like sentient speed bumps.
Then comes the BLEEP. BLEEP. BLEEP. That’s not help arriving. That’s the electric transport cart driven by a man named Walt who last smiled in 1972. It’s going 5 miles an hour and somehow still managing to mow down everything in its path like a mobility scooter possessed by a mad badger.
You think, “Maybe I’ll stop for water.” Ha. Hudson News awaits. You walk in and discover a single bottle of Dasani costs more than your childhood home, and a Snickers bar is priced like a rare antique. You spend eleven dollars and feel like you’ve been mugged by someone wearing a name badge and khakis.
The signs don’t help. Arrows point in all directions—some up, some down, one appears to be guiding you to an alternate dimension. You’re trying to find Gate B12 but have somehow ended up next to a massage chair, a shoeshine stand, and a man singing “Sweet Caroline” into a karaoke machine in what appears to be an Applebee’s with gates.
And then—dear Lord—the outfits. It’s not “airport fashion,” it’s “3 a.m. gas station chaos.” Pyjamas everywhere: crusty Spongebob bottoms, flannel nightmares, and one guy in a dressing gown and Crocs who looked like he’d escaped group therapy mid-session. A teenager strutted by in what was essentially a fishing net, while a woman in full sequins and six-inch heels stormed past like 1994 Claudia Schiffer on a mission—right into Gate C17, which, as it turns out, wasn’t a gate at all, just a broken vending machine and a man crying quietly into a Cinnabon.
And, inevitably, lurking nearby, is the old pervert. Beige trousers. Suspiciously long loitering time. Holding a newspaper that’s upside-down. Watching Claudia 2.0 with the intensity of a hawk that’s just spotted a mouse… or a restraining order.
Welcome to the airport. A place where humanity goes to be tested, teased, and slowly broken by overpriced gum, gate changes, and the slow, agonizing death of common sense.
Air travel, ladies and gentlemen. The dream of Da Vinci, realized by Spirit Airlines.
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