What is the life in an airport? I know that Steven Spielberg has written an entire thoroughly lovely film about the life of an airport, The Terminal. As I understood that film, the life in the terminal was an idealistic image of the life outside the terminal. That is, the multiplicity of life in a diverse but unequal society is mirrored in the diverse but unequal society which fills the terminal. In the film, though, the ending is almost bittersweet, it is more sweet than bitter. Out there, outside the terminal, life is more consistently h
arsh and bitter.

But I am sitting here at the airport awaiting a flight to New York’s LaGuardia Airport that is now delayed because a) general traffic into and out of New York obstructs the smooth comings and going of airplanes from everywhere else; b) rain and high winds in New York are blowing an ill wind particularly here at the airport in Minnesota. Oh, I’ve been in this state before: at this airport or the other one. And I have certainly raised this particular question concerning the life in an airport at various times before to myself. But I’ve got the time and computer now, and the others with whom I am traveling are reading their magazines, and I am forbidden even to peek into them lest I discover some secret of female adolescence I did not suspect before.

What did people do before cell phones? (For some reason, I’m thinking of Dylan’s song, “Desolation Row,” where he sings “Everybody is making love, or else expecting rain.” To whom is everybody talking? More, I wonder: why is everybody talking? To occupy the time, I suppose. And so they talk to whoever is in their phonebook. Talking to fill time. Well, that is a common use of talk, but the airport now becomes a continuation of the street (remember phone booths?), the office, and the home. People do in airports what they do in the privacies of their own home—talk on the phone, play and work on the computer, email and Google and listen to web radio. Many read—books, business details, newspapers and other periodicals. Every one works hard to look quite busy.

I am myself typing on the computer. Many others are doing the same. (I just plugged in the headphones thinking to listen to music stored on my hard drive, and suddenly all of this music showed up for free in a category called shared music. Who is sharing this music with me? It must be someone in the airport—someone named Erik. Or at least, that is the name on the shared file. I wonder if I am sharing any of my music with anyone? ) On my computer, I’m working on this piece which I will post on the blog. It entertains me to think about this topic.

But I am getting hungry, and the variety of eating establishments rivals the streets of Minneapolis/St. Paul. I can get any cuisine I desire here. I could shop here and change my entire wardrobe. When I board the plane, I can have a completely different appearance than when I first arrived.

There are gift shops. Opening soon is a sunglass purveyor, a Nascar emporium (I’ve actually never seen one of those on the streets!!), and a store called Mall of America. Land’s End has an inlet outlet here, and Starbucks and Caribou Coffee establishments spout like dandelions.

Of course there are many sellers of comfort items for the plane: newspapers, magazines, gums, candies, and pillows for the neck. I think there is little that I could want that I cannot have here.

There is a great deal of movement in the airport; actually, I think that all of this activity quite exhausts me. I can’t wait to get on the plane so that I can sleep because I am afraid to sleep here for fear that someone will put something strange in my bags and I am constantly warned by this god-like voice to watch my bags and I cannot watch my bags while I am sleeping.

Indeed, the life in the airport is always moving. We may each be sitting, but we are already in motion. We’re just waiting to go.