A guide to living the liminal lifestyle in airports
Early-morning drinking, joint pain and unparalleled people watching
I’m taking this week off work to spend it with my family on the East Coast, which meant wrapping up 49ers preseason coverage on Friday night and sleeping for 3 hours before Lyft-ing my way to the airport with a driver who was unnervingly upbeat at 4 a.m.
The flight was fine, but landing at JFK, taking a “jitney bus” to Terminal 2, which can most favorably be described as an upscale bus station — with such amenities as piss-soaked floors and lukewarm pizza offerings — was not what I’d term a luxurious experience.
Luckily I don’t mind waking up at horrific hours for flights because of the travel instincts my dad instilled in me and my sisters. He embraced getting us on flights with the seriousness of The Transporter, despite the glaring lack of stakes involved.
My dad’s training on how to maneuver through airports
Based on my childhood, I’d long believed air travel was only for the well-prepared. A glorious form of transportation reserved strictly for those brave souls with mettle of mind, body and soul.
I have since learned otherwise.
We’d show up no later than two hours before departure, park our classic, 2000s-era silver Honda Minivan in the short term parking lot, then hop on the AirTrain to the United terminal.
The preparation up to that point was flawless. Our matching red and purple L.L. Bean bags were stacked high on a trolley cart, and the number of carry-on bags were as limited as possible. You don’t want little kids handling their own bags through security.
After being all too helpful in ushering the bags onto the scale and acquiring our boarding passes from the gate agent unnerved by his friendliness, he’d tuck each ticket inside the second page of our passports, fold each passport within another, and lead us to the gate.
We were never in a rush to get to the gate, regardless of what went down at security. It was a mess then at Newark, and even with the massive upgrades to that airport, it’s still a shitshow.
Because of his preparation, I always imagined it was a much more complicated process. I don’t know what steps I thought were involved, but something about the formality of the passports and the general tone of urgency made me feel like it was serious proposition.
That tone began with my mom’s insistence on cleaning the house for 10 minutes after we’d all been packed into the car and the anxiety of wondering when, if ever, she’d emerge.
To her credit, it’s nice to come home to a clean house, and hard to clean when your kids are shlepping around the joint.
Thanks to that repetition, my siblings and I have always shared a familiarity about getting on a flight since an early age. There was never any confusion about the process, and I’ve always carried that slight dad neuroses with me about getting there early.
It’s only recently that I’ve learned to be alright with getting to certain, usually local airports an hour or less before a flight. And even then, no one’s going to describe my airport self as relaxed.
Airport chic
There are certain circumstances when you’re limited in what you can wear on a plane.
But for the most part, you’re in complete control of what you wear. And the fashion choices some folks make are beyond comprehension.
There was a time when people used to dress to the nines, donning their finest suits and dresses and filling up the cabin with a cigar shop quantity of tobacco fumes.
Unless you’re on the way to a meeting, conference, heading directly to the office, that’s an insane way to dress now.
For the most part, if you’re dressing comfortable, you’re doing just fine. Sweatsuit fashion is functional, cozy and self-contained.
My approach is to avoid adding any layers that cannot be easily removed: zip-up hoodies, shoes that don’t need to be untied to be removed.
If I’m wearing pants that need a belt, I’ll often throw my belt in my backpack before I leave and put it on after security. I’ve also learned to bring a water bottle and either chug it before walking in or empty it before I leave.
But for the love of god, please, do not wear open-toed shoes. I am continually astounded by the frequency and freedom with which people walk through security barefoot. Cover your mangled feet, you troglodytes.
Tips to avoid a cursed experience
When you have your pick of security lines, try to assess the general disposition of the people ahead of you. Like a hitman with a code, try to avoid children and old people. Anyone who might have a pacemaker or needs help walking is going to be an issue.
But the difficult part is that you won’t always be able to tell who has a clue and who doesn’t. Sometimes it’s the most unremarkable people with the most remarkable ideas of what you’re supposed to do in a security line.
You’ve done this before, Amanda. Yes, your shoes, do, in fact, have to come off. So does the endangered-species-lined fur coat. Sorry, but the half-eaten round of mozzarella will have to go, too.
Here are some quick tips:
Wear easy-to-remove layers
Comfortable pants/sweatpants, not shorts, stash belt until after security
Invest in and bring a quality pair of headphones
Prepare playlists and movies, download them
Bring or buy snacks and gum
Eat before the flight
If possible, bring just a carry-on and backpack
Get an airline credit card for the free club passes
Neck pillow if you’ve got one
If it’s more than 2 hours, take an edible or sleeping pill
In spite of all this, sometimes you’re just destined to have a horrible time.
My aunt and uncle have admitted to having a curse that follows them on trips. No one knows why.
But if they leave the state, someone’s vomiting, or they’re getting screwed over by a hotel, or their flight will be marred by impossible to comprehend delays.
All you can do is try and minimize the horrors of the airport. And there will be horrors.
Oh, the people you’ll see
There are far more stories than these about life in an airport, but here are a few me, or my family members, remember.
“We need water!”
My family and I had been stuck on the ground after pushing off from the gate in Newark for about an hour. It was during the holidays. The airport was packed. There weren’t many updates on the delay.
Most people were keeping their cool, but there was one small man in his 60s a row over who was freaking out, demanding water, citing something about a civil rights violation.
When water was brought, he was no less upset, but had lost a tangible thing to ask for, and began exclaiming “this is ridiculous!” every five minutes. He stood up at one point, shaking his fist like a cartoon character.
You’re absolutely helping, my guy. The kid who’s on his first flight is definitely having his anxieties eased by your performance.
Thank you for remaining cool as a nuclear reactor in the face of minor inconvenience. We salute you and thank you for your service.
We took off about 15 minutes after he got his water.
Blob, the Starbucks employee
Traveling with friends is great. There’s always something funny to see and it’s always funnier when you can share that.
I saw my friend and coworker, Jake, nearly lose it at a Starbucks worker at Boston’s Logan International Airport on the way back from the 2019 Super Bowl in Miami (pictured above). And he was absolutely in the right.
Our itinerary had left us with a five-hour layover in Boston, a place neither of us had visited, and were happy enough to lug our bags through for a few hours. We at least got to drink and eat at Regina Pizzeria before lumbering back to the airport.
The initial flight was substantially delayed. We could’ve spent another three hours exploring Boston.
And when we were finally on board, moments from takeoff, a woman left her seat, shut the door of the bathroom, and had some sort of… special situation.
This precluded the plane from taking off, forcing us back to the gate in order to shovel her out the door.
After arriving back, a flight attendant decided they’d also like to leave, claiming they’d fallen ill.
The only other available flight attendant in the area had to be roused from sleep and not-so-quickly ushered through the airport.
In any case, we were brought back to the gate, waited there about a half hour while someone next to Jake repeatedly asked him “What’s going on?” as if we had any other information than he did.
Eventually, we were offered the option to disembark and use some airline-provided vouchers to buy food.
None of the vouchers worked.
At the very least, the assuredly underpaid, depressant-addled Starbucks worker — let’s call him Blob — was in no shape to handle them.
Jake and I had stumbled over there to get whatever sustenance we could, knowing there wasn’t a meal on the flight.
I was first and had gotten myself a luke-cold cinnamon raisin bagel. Jake wanted a toasted bagel. He would not get one.
A few minutes passed. It was unclear what our friend behind the counter was doing. To call his movements sloth-like would be disrespectful to heroin-addicted sloths. He was somewhere else, certainly not the realm we live in.
The gate agent then called us all back to the flight imminently. Another minute or so passed.
When Jake asked for the bagel, regardless of whether it was toasted or not, it was a request miles outside of Blob’s wheelhouse.
Eventually, as another reminder to head back to the gate came through and our blood sugar levels reached dangerous lows, Jake asked, “Man, can you just give me the bagel?”
That was the fastest I’d seen Blob move, which is to say, it wasn’t rapid.
I was laughing at that point; at the fact that we were even in Boston — which, for all you cartographers out there, is not exactly on the way to San Francisco — let alone still there, 12 hours after we’d left Miami.
Our return home was at that point being threatened by a man whose brain seemed mostly composed of scar tissue.
After composing ourselves, we made it back on board, ate our sad bagels, and enjoyed the aching, six-hour trek home.
Other stories from my family
My mom once sat next to a man who cracked open a container of hot clams and went to town on them before takeoff. Just take a second to think about what that would smell like, and who you have to be as a person to subject other people to that reality.
On a flight to Vegas, she was next to a guy who snuck in a half dozen mini-fridge-sized vodka bottles and was nearly removed from the plane after continuing to down them after being warned by the stewardess that what he was doing was illegal.
En route to this current trip, my sister and her boyfriend witnessed a woman cut the boarding line to the gate. A man who she cut in front of told her, essentially, you can’t do that. She called him a “mean” man, and kept her spot while her husband looked on in horror from a few places back. She boarded after my sister, and as they were waiting in that boarding tube to see what would happen next, the woman, apparently in a near-sprint, ate shit, falling face first, leaving her with a bloody nose. The man she’d been arguing with offered her help, which she was uninterested in. Eventually, they wheeled her out of the gate, gave her medical attention, then wheeled her back in as the last passenger, in a beautiful, public display of karmic embarrassment.
Horrific food-alcohol combos are a must
One thing about airport dining institutions is that they do not skimp on the alcohol. Your $18 tequila soda is going to do the trick.
But at what cost?
Here are some horrific food decisions I’ve made in airports:
In Newark: Coming back on a red eye from Newark to San Francisco with my sister after our grandpa’s funeral, I’d stashed a leftover pastrami sandwich on rye in my bag. Our flight was delayed a bit, so we went to the food court, where I ordered a margarita, which may have been the strongest cocktail I’ve ever ordered. I endeavored to pair a then-lukewarm pastrami sandwich with basically straight tequila before the 6-hour flight home. My sister, who had to sit next to me, was… unimpressed.
In Dallas: This one felt like an affront to some deity, but which one I’ve yet to pinpoint. On the way back from the 49ers-Cowboys game, and left to my own devices for a few hours, I was craving an Irish coffee. I had some writing to do, but also felt the sick, airport urge to drink in the morning. The only restaurant I could find was a Thai place. All signs suggested I should abandon the Irish coffee. They didn’t make them. But upon special request, my waiter had one made, and I paired it with chicken pad thai, which I deemed the safest menu item to couple it with. I feel shame at that decision, but I don’t quite regret it.
In Chicago: My friend and coworker Sam saw me at my absolute worst coming through Chicago after the 49ers’ playoff win over the Packers in Green Bay. I hadn’t eaten, had barely slept, and was absolutely desperate for a McDonald’s breakfast. I thought breakfast had become a permanent all-day thing there, but as it turned out, they shut off their breakfast at 11, and I’d missed it. I ended up settling for a day-old croissant with an ice cold egg and bacon in the middle, scarfing that down as our flight boarded.
Managing layovers and how not to get stuck in the O’Hare Hilton
When you’re booking flights, make sure there’s a decent gap for your layover. An hour and 15 minutes feels like the minimum. Three hours is about the maximum.
If you’re going for a shorter layover, that’s fine, just make sure that there’s at least another flight on that airline going to your final destination on that day.
My mom didn’t do that on a trip back from Canada once, and it’s one of three “grudges” I hold against her. The other two involve a poisoning by orange and a free Darrelle Revis jersey I was not allowed to claim.
(Love you, mom.)
She didn’t want to wake my sisters and I too early, even though we had a car service driving us to the airport. So, she booked our flight from Vancouver to Chicago without realizing that our ensuing flight from Chicago to Newark was the last of the night.
As you may have gathered, we got stuck in Chicago, meaning we stayed in the O’Hare Hilton.
It’s not like it was hellish, but shifting your expectation from getting home that night to the following day and having to sleep in a dingy, airport hotel room, is not superb. I offered to rent a car and drive back to New Jersey. My offer was declined.
So when you’re booking a flight with a layover, just think of the worst-case scenario.
Immediate post-flight etiquette, and the feel of getting off a flight
There is no lower form of human functioning than coming off a long flight. It feels like there’s this thin layer of greasy film plastering you.
My knees ache like I’ve just had them replaced. My ears are sore from the six hours of wearing headphones and the (now-optional) mask around them. Everything feels bad. The recycled air isn’t helping.
So when people take issue with standing up at the first chance possible, I don’t really get it.
Don’t you want to stand up? If you’re elbowing old ladies to get out in the aisle first, that’s one thing. But there’s a natural compulsion to unglue yourself from the seat as promptly as possible.
Unless you clap upon landing, it’s fair game.
HOW YOU SHOULD DISEMBARK AND WALK IN AN AIRPORT
QUICKLY.
The speed at which people grab their bags and remove themselves from their seats is enough to send me into a state of permanent psychosis.
How you could feel anything other than a compelling urge to GET OFF THE PLANE, NOW, is beyond me.
Some people treat that part of the experience like they’re waking up from a massage, about to stroll into another part of an all-inclusive resort.
Once they’re off the plane, they manage to engulf the exit tube and proceed at a pace that would sicken a snail. If you’re going to be slow, that’s your prerogative. But get the fuck out of my way, please.
Also, to the people that don’t walk on the moving walkways, who hurt you?
Do you not feel the rush of looking to your right and thinking “I am speed” like you’re Lightning McQueen as you walk past an exhausted family with multiple toddlers?
That device might be the best part of the airport, especially the springy one in SFO that’s basically a moving trampoline.
To recap: my airport philosophy is to over-prepare so that when I get there, I don’t worry about missing my flight and can enjoy the people watching and the too-strong cocktails.
You’re going to smell things you can’t identify and see things you wish you had not.
But if you’re there early enough, preferably with a plan to mildly intoxicate yourself, you can at least appreciate the free entertainment on display.