As the Brady kids once intoned: “Hawaii!!!!!” And while they weren’t on a missing persons case, like me, I wouldn’t mind tailin' that Marcia… Mmm mmm…
There’s nothing like the long, straight shot up the blue line to its very end: O’Hare International Airport. Despite countless departures and arrivals, the trains never seem to be full. Even at rush hour, the crowds thin out quickly between the Loop and the airport. The people who remain go inward, lulled by the quiet and the darkness. You’re isolated.
The train picks up speed. Soon you're moving through the city’s northwest side, where the stops become more spaced out, and then, into the airport terminal.
Yep. Into. The first time I took the train up there, that sort of freaked me out. You find yourself in this dim, cool cavern. The light in front of you is cut off sharply by glass doors. And behind you, the shade falls off into the tunnel’s blackness. You can’t call this place gloomy. It’s too soothing somehow-- a moment of rest before you enter the sensory overload of Terminal 2.
Masses of computer screens, listing departures and arrivals in either bluish white or bright, multi-colored characters. The flow of people is not continuous, but jerk-stopping, like the movements of organic cells. Combinations of luggage, and clothes and hairstyles and faces and postures and bodies—the integrity of any one individual begins atrophying in your mind: you remember the hairstyle of one on the head of another, who is wearing the clothes of somebody else. It's sort of a Color Forms set of humanity.
Until I'm acclimated to airport space, the competing broadcast announcements really are loud enough to make me cringe. By the time I've adjusted to it all, I'm usually standing in that very slowly moving line, periodically dragging my carry-on shit about 6 inches forward every so often, till I reach the ticketing counter.
Anyone but me get paranoid during these post-911 airport security checks, even though you’ve done nothing wrong? (Must be the Kafka I ate.) There’s this small army scrutinizing you and your shit. If you're unlucky, you are selected for a random baggage search. Security guards paw your silky underthings, prescription anti-psychotic medications, anti-fungal sprays, colostomy bags, teddy bears you use to dispel the night terrors, and whatever other personal unmentionables you've lovingly folded and then stuffed into your carry-on.
I was selected for these hijinks once. Whatta hoot! I laughed so hard I pissed myself! Good thing they didn’t give me a full body search!
Speaking of piss, I was so pissed off by that experience that the next time I flew, I went out of my way to fill my carry-on past the bursting point and on toward the infinite density one might find at the heart of a black hole. There were no quantum singularities, but I had the pleasure of seeing all my shit leap into the face of the hapless luggage inspector who drew my bag. Ha! There's your explosive device!
Underwear and "Archie" comics and porno mags and women’s deodorant (‘cuz I like to smell nice) flew through the air like shrapnel! I woulda been embarrassed if I hadn'ta been laughing so hard. (And this time, I really was laughing.) For once, a gag went off exactly the way I’d planned!
But in the end, the joke was on me, ‘cuz I had to sit there in the terminal for half an hour, repacking my fucking bag.
Anyway, then there are the X-ray machines, looking, for all the world like miniaturized car washes. There's the metal detectors that some poor asshole repeatedly sets a-squeal, no matter how many belt buckles, watches, gold chains, gold teeth, or steel head plates he removes from his person.
There’s the awkwardness (both social and logistical) of peeling off your shoes. (I’d almost worn sandals for this scene alone, but considering the amount of walking and standing air travel entails, I’d reluctantly gone with an old pair of tennis shoes.) I love watching the security people scrunch up their noses, as the occasional person with really foul foot odor walks by. That’s always a lotta fun. And after the security check, I love watching all the disgruntled people leaning over in chairs to re-don their shoes—esp. the ones who, like me in this case, were dumb enough to wear shoes w/ laces that they must now re-tie.
I ask you: what’s not to love about the whole experience?
Oh yeah... a public service announcement for those of you who’ve never traveled w/ yr. laptop (I hadn’t): You have to remove your computer from any case or piece of luggage in which it’s packed. Stupidly unaware of this, I placed my Powerbook between several layers of clothing in my carry-on. Man, was I one disillusioned fuck when I got halfway up in the checkpoint line and found that I had to unpack my bloated backpack. And of course I had to repeat this performance at every single stop on the way to Hawaii. Once in Hilo, I made a point of buying a case for the thing, since you are allowed to bring your laptop on board as a personal item. What’s more, I found I could fit a few other things in the case, thereby taking some of the strain off my other bags.
Finally you're done w/ all that security jazz, and it's on to that long walk and stumble in search of your gate. With as many connecting flights as I had, I got used to that shit pretty quickly. The worst thing about it was lugging that fuck-knocking elephantine carry-on, filled almost, but not quite, this time, to the bursting point. By the time I got to Hawaii, I’d inherited a nifty set of calluses from the blisters that preceded them. My shoulders had moved beyond stiff to downright numb, which I guess was sorta a blessing. And holy shit, were the arches of my feet sore! Waaah, I scraped my poopy! Can you apply some ointment?
In our next installment I will continue to piss & moan about my various exciting adventures whilst in transit to Hawaii!!! Boyoboy! I can’t wait!!!!!!!!
