It’s been six years since my last confession. And it had been that long since I last boarded an airplane.
But a recent family emergency required travel, and with disbelief in full suspension, I soldiered on.
Here are a few impressions.
Free-market forces proliferate around airports.
I discovered a husband-and-wife kosher coffee shop called “He Brews, She Brews.”
An African-American/Chinese fusion café called “Dim Sum & ’Den Some.”
These are pop-ups located in the airport parking lot. Law enforcement is spotty in the area, so vendors can warn one another when a crime sweep is taking place.
Frequent flyers prefer dashing into these places before entering the airport. You’ll see many sitting curbside devouring their meals and beverages rather than taking chances on the many “luxury lounges” off the concourse inside.
They know what a scam that network is. The whole premise is false and pretentious.
Rich people don’t hang out in these dumps. They fly private charter.
The aspirational flyer will seek to lord it over fellow passengers denied access to these “premier” venues. Crowds pick at buffet tables laden with stale food and spoiled produce. Muzak and television also poison the atmosphere.
Then there are the hounds. Comfort dogs — often called crisis response dogs or even emotional support animals — are specially trained canines who provide immediate, soothing emotional support during traumatic events. They are now a common sight, an indication of the general deterioration of mental health these days. Do we really want to get on a plane with someone so disturbed? The fragile dog owner will invariably say he’s “a rescue” model. No kidding. How else to explain his ugliness and bad temper?
Airports also seem to be having trouble finding staff for the most basic work. For example, I was amused by a young woman’s intercom message blaring over the airport speaker system.
“Paging passenger Mister Kawaskami . . . or Kawalskamini . . . or something like that.”
The poor thing finally gave up trying to locate the passenger, and if he was a miscreant, the TSA cannot be counted on to track him down anyway.
Even for law-abiding passengers, boarding the aircraft is always an adventure in terms of negotiating the TSA barricades. One guard shouted at me recently: “White Boy, over here!”
I moved to the aisle where he was directing me, noticing that there was a big white board fastened to the entry. It was a relief to discover that I was not being addressed with a racial slur by this uniformed person of color.
Having successfully passed through this obstacle course, I found sanctuary in the Christian Science Reading Room. Besides passing the time poring over Scripture and inspirational literature, I came across a discarded copy of McNamara at War: A New History, a recent biography of notorious San Francisco native Robert McNamara. He is best remembered as the former U.S. Secretary of Defense and Vietnam War architect during the John F. Kennedy and Lyndon B. Johnson administrations.
I took special note of an anecdote about ferry travel (as opposed to air), which is by far a more civilized mode of transport for most of us. Yet McNamara had a harrowing experience on a boat once, when he was nearly murdered.
The biographers — Philip and William Taubman — note that on September 29, 1972, a passenger on the way to Martha’s Vineyard recognized McNamara and became infuriated to see him enjoying himself while the criminal war was still raging in Southeast Asia. McNamara, who was President of the World Bank at the time, was enticed to move to the bridge of the ferry by a local artist who had lost friends in Vietnam combat. A tussle followed, with McNamara barely getting away with his life by clinging to grillwork and with help from a crew member who prevented him from being thrown overboard.
Before boarding the plane, I was relieved to realize that it would be difficult for anyone with a grudge to toss me or anyone else out the door.
Just to be safe, I parked the McNamara bio at the gate.
