Pick An Airport, Any Airport, or Flying Ain't what it Used to Be!

            I was numb from head to toe. The day was just beginning and the sun was already on its way down. The Washington Monument sat stoically silhouetted in the orange brightness. A tiny speck, an airplane, fell out of site beyond the concrete tower.

Rush hour traffic was dwindling, and the tourists were all safe in the Marriott and the Hilton having dinner. The politicians were attending cocktail functions, shaking hands and smiling.

We sputtered our little 1977 Toyota across the Potomac and past this and that monument until we reached the Mall. I swerved into the first open parking space and sat there, hands on steering wheel, relieved and exhausted.

Karolyn felt the same, maybe worse. But we were finally here, together. We sat for just a moment, without saying a word. The back of the Capital building, covered with metal scaffolding, sat directly parallel to my rusty old hatchback.

The air was thick, sky graying. It should have been raining, but the gray, blah sky just sat there mocking us as the sun crept downward.

As I opened the hatchback I knew it was useless. I checked the cooler and glanced at the spoiled salad and fruit that I bought at Food Giant the night before. The cheese looked o.k., the wine could be saved for later.

This was a special occasion. I hadn't seen Karolyn in three months, and I hoped everything would be perfect.

But instead it was like a bad dream. How can things have been ruined so badly?

Just then Karolyn emerged from the car. I walked to her, kissed her and hugged her.

"I am really hungry," she said.

I was starving too, so we headed in the direction of the Old Post Office, trying not to think about the day that just passed us by.

It had all started about five in the morning with a phone call that abruptly woke me up.

"Hello, Phil?"

"Yeah, what's up," I said after pausing to think if she was right.

She explained that she was at a stopover in Jacksonville, and would be coming into Baltimore/Washington International instead of National Airport.

I told her that was great because BWI is only five minutes from where I was staying. We mumbled something back and forth and then hung up.

Great, I thought as I clutched a big, soft pillow, I'll be able to sleep late.

An hour and a half later I was again awaken by Ma Bell's striking ring.

"Hello, Phil," she began hesitantly. "I am in Newark."

What the hell was she doing in New Jersey. Why the hell did the airline fly her past Washington National, over my apartment and past BWI?

"There's a mix up with the flights," she continued. "It's really chaotic."

She said she would have to sit around for a couple of hours in Newark until she can get on a flight to Dulles Airport in Virginia. All the other flights were full. The airport was jammed with people, the corridors were lined with limp passengers, waiting.

“I might be able to get on another flight, but for now I am stuck in Newark," she said.

If my plans had worked out we would be picnicking at the Mall or under the Washington Monument. I would tell her about all the places I would show her and she would be amazed at the capital city's beauty and mystique.

Instead, I was watching the Price is Right and she was sitting in the world's ugliest airport in New Jersey's dirtiest city.

I thought about getting in my car and heading north to pick her up, to save the day. But no, things would work out. She'll be here soon.

I knew it would take about an hour to get to Dulles even though I had no idea how to get there. After a few futile attempts to find out if she was on the plane as re-scheduled, I decided if I didn't leave now she would be stranded in another dingy airport. So I put my trust in the Beltway and my Japanese car.

My little Toyota had never gone so fast, and traffic was worse than I expected. As I crossed into Virginia, I thought what a wonderful city Washington is. Soon I could share it with Karolyn. Show her its finest qualities.

But where the hell was I going? I knew there was a road that linked with the Beltway that headed straight for Dulles. I just didn't know where it was or how to find it.

As I zig-zagged and weaved across the massive highway, I began to get anxious. Damn tourist almost cut me off. Wait there's a sign. It said something about Dulles Airport. Do I take the road? Is that the right one?

Oh, what the hell, I thought as I headed down the exit ramp into the swampy bowels of Virginia.

I had landed on a two lane highway. The maintenance road for Dulles, and the sole access road for a number of new subdivisions. It was getting late, I was in first gear, and I was pissed.

I finally arrived at the airport an hour after her flight was supposed to land. I pulled into short-term parking and looked for a spot. All I saw were hundreds of cars. Line after line of cars with no open spaces.

Finally, I parked at the end of the lot in a no parking zone which others had found before me.

I ran, faster than I have since high school gym class, towards the terminal. I headed for the baggage claim area. It was empty. The rotators weren't rotating and the baggage was all claimed.

I ran upstairs to the terminal, past two Hare Krishnas and through the metal detector. It was empty. No passengers, no workers, no Karolyn.

What the hell was going on?

An old lady wearing a hearing aide at the information booth paged her. The page echoed through the empty airport.

I ran back to the terminal and paused only when I got close to the peach clad Hare Krishnas. Please, please I thought, say something to me, give me a fucking flower, anything. And I'll knock you out with the mightiest blow your face will ever feel. But the bastards ignored me.

When I got to the terminal I noticed a door marked private. In the place where a nob should be was a combination lock. But the door was open, slightly.

I pushed it in and startled a couple of high school aged airline attendants.

"Listen assholes, my girlfriend was supposed to be on flight 106 from Newark. Was she on that flight or not?"

A polite young girl got up and checked for me. The others went back to their Doritos and Diet Coke.

"No she never got on the plane," said the girl.

"What, then where the hell is she?"

Maybe she got a flight to National Airport or BWI, I thought. It's the only possible solution. That or she's still in Newark.

"Can you page the other airports for her?" I asked demandingly.

She never did hear my page, and I didn't hear the one she placed for me at Dulles. Fortunately, the attendant she asked to page me was the same one the Dulles girl called to page her at National. Otherwise who knows what would have happened.

So about 20 frustrating minutes later I heard from Karolyn. "Where the hell are you?" I asked.

"National Airport, where are you?"

"Dulles, didn't you hear the... I've been looking for over an hour... I had to leave to get here.... are you o.k.?"

"Yes, I don't want to see another airport in my life. Please get me out of here. I didn't have time to call. They announced a flight to Washington and everybody ran. I am lucky I even got here."

"I'll be there in 20 minutes," I assured her knowing it would take close to an hour.

I found the Dulles Expressway and sped towards D.C. I wasn't sure how to get to the airport, so I followed an airport taxi to the right exit. I got lost for a moment, but then found my way after losing only a few minutes.

I finally arrived at the airport at 6 p.m., seven hours after her flight was to originally land at National Airport. Karolyn was waiting impatiently, sitting on the curb in front of the busy terminal.

I pulled up, she got in, we kissed, sighed and felt much, much better for the moment. I think we both felt like we had jet lag.

We walked towards the mini-mall/tourist trap in the Old Post Office building in the misty sunlight.

A burly man in an oversized army green jacket walked towards us. Karolyn grabbed my hand and watched as he passed us.

"Who is that?" she said.

"The homeless," I said as I turned my head to watch the man urinate on a bush in the Mall, in the shadow of the Capital of the United States.

We walked faster, almost triumphant now. We climbed the steps up to the Old Post Office where we could fill our empty stomachs with any number of delights.

A bum was coming down the steps towards us, looking for handouts. He could have been the twin of our urinating friend. I reached deep into my pocket and, with a wide grin, handed him a fist-load of change. It slowly began to rain.

"I finally feel good," I said to Karolyn. "We're finally together, now we can relax and enjoy what's left of the day."

We had dinner to the sounds of cool jazz, and viewed the capital from the top of the Post Office Tower. Everything was going to be fine, but we would never forget this day.

A few days later, after showing Karolyn the Capital -- the monuments, the Metro, the people -- we left for Miami together. But this time we relied on my Toyota and I-95. It took longer, but it sure didn't seem like it.

           No wonder Peoples' Express went out of business.

© 1987 Philip M. DiComo

EPILOGUE

Washington, D.C., is a great city, and I was fortunate to intern on Capital Hill one summer when the country's political systems were in the midst of change in the mid-80s. Tip O'Neill was stepping down as speaker of the House of Representatives, Ronald Reagan had swept the nation, and Newt Gingrinch was dismantling the collaborative nature of two-party politics.  However, the charm of a non-industrial, service and government-based major U.S. city was everywhere in D.C., and I really loved it. When I was ready to return home to Florida after my internship, my girlfriend (now wife) had planned to fly up so I could show her around the nation's capital prior to driving home together.  What should have been a quick plane flight turned into an all day affair involving all three major area airports. Also, did you notice a number of references that would be impossible today? Such as the referenced landmark in the essay which is now a TRUMP licensed hotel, and no longer an historic and tourist attraction! Or the ability for a non-passenger to access the passenger terminal? Or actual Hare Krishna's at an airport? All true. Of course, we didn't have cell phones either.

What we call the present is given shape by an Accumulation of the Past.

Haruki Murakami, 1Q84

Every day moments accumulate in our lives, and we experience them with great feeling and passion, or even indifference. But they make up who we are and who we become as individuals and human beings. As the years accumulate, our memories and feelings about those memories tend to fade. Yet, everything we are today is given shape by each and every experience, so it is good to acknowledge the memories and life-moments that have brought us to today.