Friday, December 1, 2006 - 11:45pm - Terminal 1, Concourse B, O’Hare International Airport, Chicago, Illinois
I love airports. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Where else can you get such a wide range of human emotions all in one place? You have people happy they’re going somewhere. People sad they’re leaving somewhere. People concerned about who they’re visiting or who they’re leaving. Families, couples, singles, old, young, black, white, businesswomen, old frat boys on a golf trip, funeral goers, wedding crashers, and much more. Rarely will you ever see someone who is truly bored at the airport. Even people who are just sitting, staring out the window are psyching themselves up to get into a giant metal tube with wings, under the command of a person they don’t know, and willingly let this stranger defy numerous laws of physics while hurtling something the size of three houses six miles over land at 500 miles an hour. Really, airports are fun and exciting and like a little city all by themselves.
Unless you’re stuck at O’Hare Airport at 11:45pm on a Friday night. I was lucky enough to get out of DC Friday, despite the winter storms in the Midwest and the coming high-speed winds to DC. I didn’t mind the 2 1/2 hour layover, because it gave me time to grab a beer, some dinner, and watch the first half of Wedding Crashers (yes, I am the last white male in his 20s to see this movie - thank you, Netflix!). I was on my way to Bloomington, Illinois - most of the way to visit JonFarr at the U of I. We all piled on to flight 7309, running on time, and 8:30-ish departure for a 25 minute flight. I chatted with a woman who was on her way back from Tokyo. I started the Hemispheres crossword. The pilot came on, very sorry, but he thought if we tried to land in Bloomington, we would likely crash off the end of the runway and die. I’m no pilot, but when a pilot openly says this to his passengers, I’m going to side with him.
JonFarr was nice enough to offer to come pick me up, but it’s apparently 3 1/2 hours from Shampooed Banana to O’Hare, so that meant plenty of waiting. I had another beer, spent plenty of time on the phone, watched the last half of "Wedding Crashers," but that still left tons of time. And that’s where airports get interesting. Everyone leaving for the night were leaving. No one was left to show up, at least not in the hot spot that is Concourse B after dark. I started doing laps up and down the terminal. In all fairness, I started pacing long before the place died down. I was still on the phone, going from B-4 to B-16 and back. I’d say it’s a good 1/4 mile from end to end. I did this for about six laps. Good times, especially with the backpack* and wheely bag.
*ASIDE: When I travel, I’m like an inconsolable six year old. I bring far too many sources of entertainment with me. I had a DVD player with six movies, four mix cds which are designed specifically for travel, a mini mp3 player, and a book. That’s not to mention a phone to make others entertain me. If I hadn’t stopped carrying my journal every time I traveled, I probably would be getting fitted for a metal rod spine. I’m lucky if I remember to bring enough socks, but dammit, Runaway Jury is always with me. God loves any movie with John Cusack, Rachel Weisz, Dustin Hoffman, Gene Hackman, and Luis Guzman.
Back to the lecture at hand: I started noticing things on the laps. For starters, I wasn’t the only one doing them. Like old people who mall walk, I started smiling and nodding at the folks I kept passing. I started noticing changes in tile patterns on the floor. The dinosaur near the Terminal One security checkpoint became the halfway marker (I wish I took the rockin’ picture to the left, but it’s from flickr user "Found Photographer"). I wondered who really bought that much booze at the Duty Free kiosk, and if it’s really that good of a deal, and why the hell is Russian booze sold at Chicago’s airport. What I really noticed were the people who were clearly settling in for a long winter’s nap. These are people who probably were on the 9:15am to Birmingham, and they surely weren’t getting out until Saturday morning. They may be the only ones who look bored at the airport. They aren’t going anywhere. They know it. The only thing on their minds is getting something close to a full night’s sleep, not having anything stolen, not going into back spasms over the ridiculously uncomfortable chairs, and remembering why the hell they’re at B-9 listening to repeats of CNN Airport at 3:12am. I felt a personal victory. I was escaping. My ride was coming…eventually.
Somewhere along lap five, I stopped after hanging up the phone with Steve K, and I was at the high end of the B Concourse. That’s when I saw the picture above. The repetition of the tile, the overhead beams, the lights, the blue signs, and the endless abyss which a long, straight airport building with repeated colors becomes when there is no one moving inside of it. The excitement is gone. The life of an airport is gone. All that’s left is an amazingly functional building made to look as good as an amazingly functional building can, the hum of electricity, and the sounds of maybe 50 people in a building which had thousands just two hours ago. It was eerie and calming, all at the same time. And since I remembered by 9th grade photography class lessons about repetition and lines and horizons, I took this picture. This was actually the third one, the other two people horribly horrible. I actually did this one without a flash, letting the camera just sit on the ground. It would have looked better with a little altitude, but it was the best I could do on short notice. I kinda like it.
Two days and a fun weekend later, I found myself at the Central Illinois Regional Airport in Bloomington, Illinois. The life was back in this airport, whose entire facility is smaller than the B Concourse at O’Hare. There were bunches of people, all aflutter over going somewhere. The Springfield family on its way to Disney World. The Urbana businessman on his way to Mass General Hospital for some kind of consulting thing. And the East Coast young man who found the "Honor System Coffee" pictured here very amusing. The coffee wasn’t too bad, and yes, I put my dollar in the little box. Everyone did. There was a sign on the counter which said, "Smile! The camera is watching you! Please pour your coffee before putting money in the box." I looked around, but never saw the camera. I don’t think there really is one. I love the Midwest.
Title is from the song "Sweet Home Chicago," made famous by the Blues Brothers, but made best by Magic Sam.
