The airport, like Vegas, never sleeps. It’s six in the morning but it might as well be midday. People everywhere, hustling. I’m on the flat escalator, catatonic with sleep deprivation, watching the airport workers outside. Their activity can best be described as ant-like, both in their movements, which you can describe as “scurrying” at this distance, and also because of the idea that each worker has a job, a purpose, seemingly disparate, but if you pull back far enough, you realize that they are all working toward one goal. That goal being: to get your ass and luggage to their destination in one piece.
The single-serving size shampoo, conditioner, and body wash were all of a scent called “natural wood,” which I can only presume is why, riding down to the lobby in the elevator this morning with four others, it smells like a sawmill. During the descent, I reflect on the fact that we all washed with the same scents and soaps and used towels that were likely washed with the same detergent. How often can you say that is the case with a group of strangers?
Not often, I guess.
On the cab ride: I thought I had escaped advertisements playing on the seat-back in front of me, but no; even the cab has that setup now. The ad playing now is for Proactiv solution; what are you saying about me, seat-back? Eventually I realize that the button in the bottom right hand corner turns the system off. I press it, and both the video and audio are mercifully muted.
How does Internet access work on a plane? I’m sure I could just open a browser and look it up, but let’s you and I pretend we are in the pre-Internet age (and ignore the obvious contradiction that I’m crafting this pre-Internet fantasy on an almost-always-Internet-connected smartphone).
And why am I so afraid of flying? It flies in the face of statistics, and if there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I don’t like to fly in the face of statistics. One website says that you have a one in 7 million chance of being in an airplane disaster. Another says that you could board a plane every day for 19,000 years before you board a plane that crashes. And yet here I am, sitting in an airline seat, white knuckled and having to remind myself to breathe.