Airports Remind Me of the Seventies

Friday, I travelled to Washington DC and back for a meeting for work. I spent the week before being a bit apprehensive about it. I worried that the plane would crash and my husband and babies would be left behind to fend for themseleves. It crushed my heart, actually, to put myself in what seemed to be such a risky place. But, my Dad, bless him, was the one to speak up and say, "I feel better about you being up in a plane than driving to the airport; it's much safer." That eased my mind enough to make it through the day.

I arrived at Cleveland Hopkins Airport at 7:30 a.m. and got in line for my security check. I had printed my boarding pass the night before and felt like a savvy traveler. That is until I was next in line and suddenly realized I had left my wallet with my ID in my car. So, I hustled back out into the parking garage, snagged my wallet and rejoined the line. I passed security with flying colors and began my three-mile hike to the farthest gate in the farthest concourse.

As I made my way underground, probably under runways, I took note of the artwork on the walls of the gray, tiled walkway. It was very modern but also kind of art deco. Remember making snowflakes out of paper by folding it up and cutting on the folds? It's that kind of thing, only with gray sheet metal, aviation designs, and what appeared to be bunnies. What is it with bunnies these days? Everyone is talking about them; they're so hot right now. Anyway, I walked briskly down the moving walkway with the friendly EPCOT lady voice-over telling me to stand to the right, walk on the left and look out here comes the end of the sidewalk.

Our flight was delayed about twenty minutes so I had a chance to catch my breath and get good and nervous. We walked down the umbilical cord (I don't know what these temporary paths to the airplane are called) and stepped on to the plane. I was a bit surprised to realize that it was such a tiny plane. There were twenty rows of three seats, one seat on the right side of the aisle and two seats on the left. I was surprised that my claustrophobia didn't immediately set in as I bowed my head under the low ceiling and turned to the side to slip down the aisle. I don't know why can't I abide the close quarters of a sleeping car on a train but had no problem with this little sardine can.

The last time I had ridden on one of these little planes was pre-9/11 by a few months. As our plane was trying to land, it suddenly pulled up and rushed back into the clouds. Apparently, there was already a plane on our runway and the pilot was loathe to rear-end it, thus the abrupt pull up. It was a horrifying experience and I didn't fly again for three more years. Then, when I did get on a plane again, I was terrified. I prayed during take-off, I prayed during the landing and I tried to pretend I was on a bus while we were airborn. I didn't look out the windows as I didn't want to kick my vertigo in on top of the claustrophobia I was keeping at bay with pure imagination. I would probably snap and go bat shit crazy if I actually tried to comprehend the reality of my situation.

Nowadays, frankly, I'm tired of being afraid to fly. As I sat in my seat and looked out the window, I tried to remember flying before I was afraid. I looked around and saw several hangars and lots of equipment. A small luggage cart drove by as well as a lavatory services truck. I felt relieved that I was sitting on the plane and not driving that vehicle. Relief being a new feeling on a plane as opposed to white-knuckled near-panic, I began to sense a change in the wind, as it were. I recalled one of my first voyages on an airplane as a child and remembered being thrilled and insatiably curious about what the ground would look like from that high up. I started to feel better about this flight.

The plane backed away from the gate and began to turn towards the runway. I looked over to the airport and I was struck by how Seventies the scene looked. There were lots of low buildings, where concrete and girders try to pass for design details. And everything was gritty. As I recall, during the 1970's everything had a layer of grit on it: the buildings, the streets, the people, the fashion, the TV shows (even children's television).

This realization caused me to slip back in time to my childhood. I remember going to the airport on Sunday afternoons with my parents, my grandparents, my aunts and uncles and cousins. I don't think we were picking anyone up or dropping anyone off. I think we just went to see the planes come and go. The Akron Canton Airport used to have an outdoor walkway where visitors could stand and watch the planes come and go.

Watching the planes was interesting for a few minutes, but I was much more fascinated by the inside of the terminal. There was a sawnky restaurant and bar that had dark wood paneling and puce carpet. One wall was all windows so that you could sip your Manhattan and watch the planes in smokey comfort. It was the height of seventies style.

There were several molded plastic chairs (very mod) nailed to the floors in rows in the waiting area of the airport that had small, 5-inch, black and white TV's attached to them. You just had to pay a small fee to watch, well, nothing really. It was a nice idea, but you really couldn't pull in any stations at the airport. It was an idea before its time. There was also a laminating machine, which captured my imagination. I had nothing to laminate, but I dreamed of the day that someday I would have something to laminate, by God, and I'd know right where to go.

With the rebirth of my curiousity around airplanes, airports and flying, I returned to the present with the resolve to try to enjoy the flight. As we took off from the runway, I forced myself to watch the land shrink away and become mosaic. I watched as the clouds came closer and obscured my view. I watched until it was just a pile of shaving cream out the window. I no longer felt the anxiety of being thousands of feet in the air, nor did I feel at all closed in. I also was satisfied to note that I was in the air, not on a bus and it was A-OK with me.

I was distracted from the window by one of my favorite things about flying: the safety demonstration disco. For some reason, I like watching this little ritual very much. Everytime I've seen it done, it's been done by some bored flight attendent. It's comforting, though, and it feels like a treat: not only do we get beverage service, but we also get a show! Satisfied with the performance of the dead calm attendent explaining what to do during a situation that ordinarily caused dead panic, and enjoying the irony; I turned to my book set in Bombay and happily waited to be offered a cold Diet Coke.

As we began to approach the DC area, I turned back to the window. I noticed a small mountain range that looked like green clay that had been spread out on a table and pinched up into small peaks down the middle. The closer we got to the city, the more interesting the landscape became. I saw the captiol building first, then the Washington Memorial, then the Jefferson Memorial. It's like flying into a movie or history. As we taxied around to the gate, that old seventies feeling returned. On the outside of the airport, the gritty equipment and archetecture, although differently done, strongly resembled the aesthetic of the Cleveland Airport.

We had a thrilling cab ride to our meeting and a thrilling cab ride back to the airport later. My Dad's words echoed in my ears. Yes, I'm more likely to bite it in this cab than up in that tiny jet plane. We left sunny DC for dark and stormy Cleveland another twenty minutes late. But I had nothing to worry me on the plane except for the rank smell of the lavatory and the drunk couple two rows in front of me.

But the flight was uneventful and I returned home to my family, Crave Case in hand. It was a peace offering to Doc, who had spent two extra long days with the girls this week and, I'm sure, was feeling weak. He did not like the idea of me getting on a plane and fretted until I came home. So I brought him this treat. I couldn't seem to convince him that I had a nice trip, though, and that flying was no big deal. He's not buying it. So much for growth, eh?