Airport Angst

Anyone familiar with air travel knows that we misname airports.  We joined the wrong word with ‘port’.  Air—a nebulous word that lacks gravitas—connotes nothing.     Another “A” word better defines the dreadful experience of commercial flying.

Angst:  “a feeling of deep anxiety or dread, typically an unfocused one about the human condition….”  Port:  “a gate or gateway, especially into a walled city.”   Suffix the words together and voila:  Angstport!

Angst skulks into the psyche when suitcase packing with the incumbent fret on what to take and things forgotten.   Morning flights trigger Anxomnia, a restless toss and turn the night before departure. Traffic gridlock en route pushes the anxiety needle to the right.

Actual arrival amps angst.   Outside baggage check requires a generous tip to curbside attendants to tamp down dread that luggage might land in Cleveland.  Air-bound commuters then pivot to the glass doors that open like a Phoenix Flytrap that sucks them into the vortex of insecure travelers marching double time to hurry up and wait in an oxymoronic security line.  Those whose flights depart in 20 minutes fidget like cocaine addicts after a snort of high-octane anxiety.   

The queue wends its way around and around the maze of nylon strapped pylon poles.  Many suffer TBS, or tight bun syndrome, a nervous clenching of butt cheeks as the herd moves in tight ass submission.  One hand tugs a wheeled bag, a driver’s license and ticket in the other, as all waltz in a two-step bullock shuffle.  Pause; repeat.  Pause; repeat. Pause; repeat.

Several wends around the pylons end at Checkpoint Charlie where feared federal officers of the TSA intone:  ID and tickets please.  The federales’ badges empower them with authority for a warrantless right to inspect, detect and detain.    The humorless TSA endure an eight-hour monotony of moving the lowing herd though they never suffer the social effronteries suffered by waiters, salesclerks and hotel employees.  We fear their capricious power.   Even the pompous and the bumptious proceed in quiet obeisance when they hand over ID and ticket for inspection. 

Moving forward in cowed submission, hopeful air voyagers empty pockets, remove shoes, coats and hats, and place them along with opened laptop cases, phones, jewelry, sundries and carry-on bags onto bus trays, and shove them forward on steel rollers to be x-rayed and examined.  

Dutifully awaiting the TSA officer’s prompt, one’s own person enters the rotating x-ray machine, hands up, chin out, eyes looking straight ahead while praying for avoidance of random selection for personalized screening.  If all goes well, collect belongings, and find an open seat to put back on shoes, hat and jacket, then trudge over to the ETD monitor hoping that the dreaded word—DELAYED—does not align with the intended destination.

If ‘delayed’, join the anal retentive who arrive two hours early for a drink at a restaurant or bar devoid of ambience that serves over-priced food and drink with underwhelming service.  These places neither need nor seek goodwill in this walled Stalag 13 where no one escapes unruffled, where diners and drinkers mutter to themselves: ‘I know nothing’ other than get me out of here.

Arrive at the assigned gate and find an empty seat amidst a sea of twitchy travelers awaiting the boarding process.  Another line, another ticket presentation, another bullock shuffle down the hollow walled walkway that bridges entry to the plane, and still another traverse down the narrow aisle flanked by three seats aside. 

The loading procession presents a cross section of humanity who file by like a circus parade.   Flying was once reserved for the jet set with beautiful people dressed for the occasion.  No more. Today, we travel like commoners—appropriate apparel and good hygiene optional.  One in three suffer the anguish of the middle seat perched between two strangers who fill up their seat and part of yours; or next to a chatty Kathy who won’t leave off yakking; or someone who has not bathed since 9/11.  Sometimes all three. 

The last wave of boarders possess a singular goal—an open bin for a carry-on.  Oh, the  dread of hearing the steward’s feigned apology:  “Sorry, there is no room in the bin; your bag must be checked.”  Jesus, Mary & Joseph!

After all settle into their seats, the steward’s distorted voice squawks through the intercom sounding like fingernails on a chalk board.  Instructions for the moronic explain how to buckle up, and agitate the paranoiacs on what to do in the event of a plane crash.  No proof exists that such instructions saved anyone.

Indeed, not everyone finds relief from the rush of a jet powered takeoff.   As many as 25 million people suffer from aerophobia.   A rush of turbulence torments them.  Among the remedies suggested by experts:  ‘Take up flying lessons.’  While at it, toss folks into the deep end to learn to swim.

A plane’s tight quarters afflicts all, differing only by level of degree.  Claustrophobia—a feeling of discomfort or discontent caused by being in a limiting or restrictive situation or environment—defines the essence of air travel.  Since Covid-19, germaphobia—once defined as an abnormal fear of germs—can now be described as a normal fear of contagions from a crammed environ populated with snifflers, hackers and sneezers.

The staggering trip to the toilet negotiated on a narrow aisle of a winged rocket traveling 500 miles an hour at 30,000 feet suggests that only camels should fly.  Those with anxious bladders listen for the captain’s permission to seek relief.  Await a clear runway aft before the refreshment cart blocks the way; reel down a narrow aisle to reach the plane’s tail section; await the current occupant’s refreshing exit; then follow suit by opening the door hinged in the middle like an old telephone booth for entry into a room of the same narrow rectangular dimensions.  A visit therein dispels the urban myth about two consenting contortionists joining the mile high club in this Loo.   

Flying might be a time saver, but neither time nor lunch is ‘free’.  Both require payment in one form or another. A stint aloft passes like the drip drop of Chinese water torture.  Those strapped in confinement pursue various techniques to resuscitate the mind-numbing ordeal—a book or crossword; fiddle on the laptop; watch a movie; ear buds to listen to music; eyemasks for wistful attempts to nod off (good luck).   

Other than island hopping, United Airlines 36-mile flight from Santa Ana (SNA) to Los Angeles (LAX) wins the prize as the shortest commercial flight, which speaks volumes about LA’s insufferable vehicular traffic.   The USA’s longest flight traverses from New York’s JFK to Singapore,  an 11,400-mile odyssey in just under 19 anguish-filled hours.  Presumably, rich financial gains or wondrous majesties warrant the torment.

Airlines prohibit cell phone calls.  And not for the reason suggested—that cell phones somehow interfere with a plane’s navigation system.   The real reason for phone prohibition involves the herded, harried, inspected, neglected, dejected, aerophobic, claustrophobic, germophobic travelers aboard the plane.  In 2021, the FAA reported just under 6,000 incidents of unruly passengers.  Of those, 4,290 – nearly 72% – were mask-related incidents.  If masks trigger disorder, imagine the chaos ignited by chatty Kathy or self-important Sam blabbering incessantly on a cell phone.

The welcomed sound of the plane wheels hitting the runway signals textspencers and gabbers to switch on their phones faster that than the speed of sound.   When the plane brakes at the gate and rings its Pavlovian bell, passengers stand in anxitement, rising as one like a congregation for an aisle-walking bride.  Anxious to be freed from confinement, even folks in the plane’s dreaded tail section stand in the aisle in a  ‘full sail, no wind’ doldrums waiting interminably for the those in front to awkwardly unload bags from bins.

Finally exiting the plane, former passengers meet the sights and sounds of the arrival concourse.   In hurried pace they join the race, dodging and weaving through the nameless, faceless crowds.  The worrisome luggage carousels, shuttles, cabs and car rentals still loom ahead. 

That Whoosah feeling, a blend of elation and ease, only arrives when the Angstport’s radar tower disappears from the escaping vehicle’s rearview mirror.