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Lacks feeling
July 3rd, 2008 | 5:33 pm
You take someone to the airport, it's clearly the beginning of the relationship. That's why I have never taken
anyone to the airport at the beginning of a relationship.
Why?
Because eventually things move on and you don't take someone to the airport and I never wanted anyone to
say to me, "How come you never take me to the airport anymore?"
Harry was right. Or if not the beginning of a relationship, then at least it's the salad days--the good times,
when you're still full of hope. When there isn't a grave weight around every little gesture, or if there is, it's a
weight that feels full of promise and heavy with happiness, and not like shackles of desperation: a ball and
chain. When there hasn't been a real fight yet-- the kind where the man you think you love calls you a "stupid
bitch" or tells you all of the worst things you already think about yourself; when there isn't a lot of "fucking
crying" and driving laps around the terminals because you can't bring yourself to stop the car and say
goodbye; and when you know exactly when you'll see each other again, and it will be very soon.
People always bemoan LAX. I adore it, because it's Los Angeles in miniature. It's spread-out and shabby
and chic in every language you can imagine. Most importantly, LAX feels comfortable when you're alone.
I don't want anyone trying to figure out how and where to drop me off and pick me up. I don't want to do that
thing where I'm shouting into my cel phone above the din of honking horns:
"I'm in front of Delta. Five. No, the sign that says Delta. The FIRST sign. There's a blue car parked in front of
me. Delta. Arrivals. Baggage Claim. No, now there's a white car and a green taxi cab. Delta. Five. No, the
inner curb. TERMINAL FIVE. DELTA!"
And then twenty minutes later, I'm sitting in the passenger seat looking out the window at the madness,
while the driver fumes that this is the last time he is picking up someone at the airport. I'd much prefer to wait
thirty minutes for the parking lot shuttle below the red sign and then try to make conversation in a common
language with the shuttle driver. He always winks and tells me "Tipping is not allowed" when I give him two
bucks, but he takes it anyway. My old car is always there, gold and dusty and waiting patiently for me.
LAX is the last flight out of Saigon. People run and shuffle and drag suitcases as big as coffins and pet
carriers with rabbits inside. You can't ever figure out what's going on... who's coming and who's going. You're
always waiting in line. There's no place to sit or park. It's old and new architecture, filthy and swanky. Every
terminal is laid out completely different and in various states of repair or disrepair, and there's no easy way to
get between the seven of them.
It's a cinch, though, because you know to expect chaos. People ignore you except to yell at you to put your
arms up, remove your shoes and belt and jacket, and hold on to your boarding pass. The special security
line for elite travellers is always closed, forcing the rich to put their things in the bins on the belt with the
rabble. There's no space-age technology with puffs of air and x-ray vision. Everyone walks barefoot on the
filthy floor through the old-fashioned metal detectors--starlets and tourists and film crews and immigrants
and ladies with babies and men in short pants. LAX never disappoints the style-conscious.
It's a sentimental dump. There are couples making out like their plane is going down on the curb, in the bar,
and at the gate. There are families yelling and losing their kids. Mary Kate is on the cover of Us magazine and
there she is buying one at the newsstand. Any time, p.m. and a.m., feels like rush hour. Yet time stands still.
LAX is its own country: It's the capital of the capital of the third world. I'm happy that its loud gray blank walls
with gratuitous Venice beach and Visit Hollywood signs never remind me of the flight schools and box cutters.
A bloody mary in the airport lounge the morning of an exciting trip tastes better than anything. There's always
someone interesting to talk to, going to someplace you've probably never been, like Bangkok or Butte or
Bogota, on a layover or going home to a family. Best of all, you are free to say anything about yourself--to
rewrite your life the way you wish it was: Yes, I'm on a book tour. Yes, this was the last stop. I can't wait to get
home to my husband and children. He's an architect. New York City. Three. The baby is just learning to walk.
Oh darn, no. No I don't have any extra copies. We sold out.
For years, I loved telling people that I was on my way to Rome to visit my boyfriend. They probably thought I
was making that up. It's astonishing what toll the end of a long-distance affair takes on your accumulation of
frequent flier miles. I was a Platinum Medallion last year. This year, only Gold. I'm looking forward to a
relationship not revolving around airports or precious metals now.
With most of my loved ones on the other side of the country, I fly a lot and it's better alone. It helps chances for
an upgrade. The novelty of free alcoholic drinks has worn off and now I just drink plain sparkling water and
enjoy the extra space. Wherever I'm going, I don't want to arrive with a headache. I've been in business class
with Diane Cannon and Seal and a Saudi Arabian prince. The prince really liked the Eddie Murphy movie
where Eddie played a fat lady. He laughed so hard I stopped crying over a goodbye for a few minutes and
silently watched his screen along with him.
I get dressed up. I go alone. In a nice black dress, heels, a set of red luggage and big sunglasses in the
airport, people think I'm someone famous. People call me "Miss". I appreciate the reverence. I Project
Runway walk through the concourse and down the jetway. I pretend I really am famous, but I'm just a lady
flying solo, hopefully to someplace good for something even better. I'm the capital of my world. And there's no
fucking crying.
Comments
July 3rd, 2008 | 5:33 pm
You take someone to the airport, it's clearly the beginning of the relationship. That's why I have never taken
anyone to the airport at the beginning of a relationship.
Why?
Because eventually things move on and you don't take someone to the airport and I never wanted anyone to
say to me, "How come you never take me to the airport anymore?"
Harry was right. Or if not the beginning of a relationship, then at least it's the salad days--the good times,
when you're still full of hope. When there isn't a grave weight around every little gesture, or if there is, it's a
weight that feels full of promise and heavy with happiness, and not like shackles of desperation: a ball and
chain. When there hasn't been a real fight yet-- the kind where the man you think you love calls you a "stupid
bitch" or tells you all of the worst things you already think about yourself; when there isn't a lot of "fucking
crying" and driving laps around the terminals because you can't bring yourself to stop the car and say
goodbye; and when you know exactly when you'll see each other again, and it will be very soon.
People always bemoan LAX. I adore it, because it's Los Angeles in miniature. It's spread-out and shabby
and chic in every language you can imagine. Most importantly, LAX feels comfortable when you're alone.
I don't want anyone trying to figure out how and where to drop me off and pick me up. I don't want to do that
thing where I'm shouting into my cel phone above the din of honking horns:
"I'm in front of Delta. Five. No, the sign that says Delta. The FIRST sign. There's a blue car parked in front of
me. Delta. Arrivals. Baggage Claim. No, now there's a white car and a green taxi cab. Delta. Five. No, the
inner curb. TERMINAL FIVE. DELTA!"
And then twenty minutes later, I'm sitting in the passenger seat looking out the window at the madness,
while the driver fumes that this is the last time he is picking up someone at the airport. I'd much prefer to wait
thirty minutes for the parking lot shuttle below the red sign and then try to make conversation in a common
language with the shuttle driver. He always winks and tells me "Tipping is not allowed" when I give him two
bucks, but he takes it anyway. My old car is always there, gold and dusty and waiting patiently for me.
LAX is the last flight out of Saigon. People run and shuffle and drag suitcases as big as coffins and pet
carriers with rabbits inside. You can't ever figure out what's going on... who's coming and who's going. You're
always waiting in line. There's no place to sit or park. It's old and new architecture, filthy and swanky. Every
terminal is laid out completely different and in various states of repair or disrepair, and there's no easy way to
get between the seven of them.
It's a cinch, though, because you know to expect chaos. People ignore you except to yell at you to put your
arms up, remove your shoes and belt and jacket, and hold on to your boarding pass. The special security
line for elite travellers is always closed, forcing the rich to put their things in the bins on the belt with the
rabble. There's no space-age technology with puffs of air and x-ray vision. Everyone walks barefoot on the
filthy floor through the old-fashioned metal detectors--starlets and tourists and film crews and immigrants
and ladies with babies and men in short pants. LAX never disappoints the style-conscious.
It's a sentimental dump. There are couples making out like their plane is going down on the curb, in the bar,
and at the gate. There are families yelling and losing their kids. Mary Kate is on the cover of Us magazine and
there she is buying one at the newsstand. Any time, p.m. and a.m., feels like rush hour. Yet time stands still.
LAX is its own country: It's the capital of the capital of the third world. I'm happy that its loud gray blank walls
with gratuitous Venice beach and Visit Hollywood signs never remind me of the flight schools and box cutters.
A bloody mary in the airport lounge the morning of an exciting trip tastes better than anything. There's always
someone interesting to talk to, going to someplace you've probably never been, like Bangkok or Butte or
Bogota, on a layover or going home to a family. Best of all, you are free to say anything about yourself--to
rewrite your life the way you wish it was: Yes, I'm on a book tour. Yes, this was the last stop. I can't wait to get
home to my husband and children. He's an architect. New York City. Three. The baby is just learning to walk.
Oh darn, no. No I don't have any extra copies. We sold out.
For years, I loved telling people that I was on my way to Rome to visit my boyfriend. They probably thought I
was making that up. It's astonishing what toll the end of a long-distance affair takes on your accumulation of
frequent flier miles. I was a Platinum Medallion last year. This year, only Gold. I'm looking forward to a
relationship not revolving around airports or precious metals now.
With most of my loved ones on the other side of the country, I fly a lot and it's better alone. It helps chances for
an upgrade. The novelty of free alcoholic drinks has worn off and now I just drink plain sparkling water and
enjoy the extra space. Wherever I'm going, I don't want to arrive with a headache. I've been in business class
with Diane Cannon and Seal and a Saudi Arabian prince. The prince really liked the Eddie Murphy movie
where Eddie played a fat lady. He laughed so hard I stopped crying over a goodbye for a few minutes and
silently watched his screen along with him.
I get dressed up. I go alone. In a nice black dress, heels, a set of red luggage and big sunglasses in the
airport, people think I'm someone famous. People call me "Miss". I appreciate the reverence. I Project
Runway walk through the concourse and down the jetway. I pretend I really am famous, but I'm just a lady
flying solo, hopefully to someplace good for something even better. I'm the capital of my world. And there's no
fucking crying.
Comments
