The Grad School Diaries: Airports, Part I

It has been said that human existence is only bearable because we do not, in fact, know what the future holds for us, and my experience during Year Two would prove to be a first-rate example of this principle, but on one particular morning in August I found myself sitting in the Lansing Capital City Airport, reflecting on how much small airports start to look alike once you’ve been in more than, say, five of them. Of course, what you consider a “small” airport depends very much on your point of view; at this point in my life I had been through several of the world’s largest and busiest airfields (including LAX, JFK, Dallas-Fort Worth, Phoenix Sky Harbor, Chicago O’Hare, Washington Dulles and National, Heathrow, Gatwick, Orly, Narita, Rome, Boston Logan, Atlanta Hartsfield, and Miami) and for the most part they’re all distinctively different, although not always in good ways. Still, there’s almost no chance you’d ever mistake a concourse at O’Hare with one in Dallas, and neither one looks anything like Heathrow…

By contrast, the small but thoroughly modern airfield here in Lansing looks remarkably like the one in Columbus, and quite a bit like the ones in Des Moines, Albany, El Paso, and Salt Lake City (although that last one is larger). Perhaps small airports make use of generic architecture and equipment, rather than paying premiums for something unique and decorative; or perhaps as I’m getting older and seeing more and more of the world my memory is fading and all of these small airports are running together in my mind. But the Capital Cities Airport is certainly clean and nice, and this early in the morning it’s remarkably uncrowded; I had no trouble finding a table in the snack bar and settling in to read the paper while I consider my breakfast, the view outside, and the voyage on which I find myself…

I’m on my way to Detroit, a 22-minute flight, where I will change planes for the two-hour hop to New York City’s La Guardia Airport; a (hopefully) short cab ride will take me from there to my stepmother’s place in the Village. I’ll be in town for a couple of days to see my father and stepmother and take in a baseball game, and possibly a few other activities that can’t be accomplished in East Lansing, Michigan or its surroundings. Outside the rain is pouring down in such torrents that you’d half expect to see a guy with a long white beard walking past with two of each kind of animal, and the forecast for tomorrow’s game in New York is iffy; I’m also less than thrilled to be embarking on this trip without my favorite travelling and baseball companion. But the game (and to a lesser extent, the visit itself) are supposed to be quality father-and-son time, and that’s hard to come by when the parties involved are 44 and 71, respectively, and live hundreds (or thousands; it depends on the week) of miles apart, so my wife has elected not to come along for this one…

When I was a child there really wasn’t anything I enjoyed more than flying; I’d clamor for a window seat and watch every second of the takeoff and landing with rapt concentration. Later (once I had learned to read and write) I took to recording my impressions of the trip, including a minute-by-minute log of the flight and a critique of the landing – a habit I continued until government regulations and encroaching middle age finally eliminated my enjoyment of air travel. There’s still a certain satisfaction to be had in getting somewhere quickly and efficiently, and I still get some enjoyment out of breezing through an airport, travelling light, and having everything I need tucked away in my briefcase (despite the best efforts of TSA and the airlines themselves). But the truth is that most of the time I don’t particularly want to go anywhere; I’d rather just find a comfortable spot somewhere out of the rain, and watch the world go by…