Airports

 

 

I

Despite what their name might suggest, they aren’t flying ports; they’re the roosts of birds and of men. Sometimes a plane makes a mistake while landing and a catastrophe occurs. Like when on foggy days a half-blind pigeon lands on the sidewalk and collides with another one that, in turn, makes a fuss; and for awhile there’s commotion among the pigeons.

The most important thing in an airport is for the floor to be waxed and polished so that children can slide from one end to the other (which they call cities). That way, well before getting on the plane, they’ve already made the trip.

Some adults regularly dream about airports. They love that feeling of worldliness they get in them, the lulling sound of flights being announced, being rocked by the wings of a plane that transports them almost imperceptibly. Other people love airports because they enjoy feeling suspended between one city and another, between one time zone and another, that ongoing sensation of having neither left nor arrived; something tells them that they are inside and outside at the same time, at the center and at the margin. Some of those who stay behind dream of escaping.

The passengers departing for Amsterdam experience a sensation of nostalgia, and the voice of the stewardess calling passengers for Tripoli is smooth and glides like a very prim little girl down a corridor.

Others love those moments of premonition in airports when suspicions are suddenly confirmed (about the length of a flight) and how, through the confusing fog of the little window, a distant light can resemble the future.

Those who stay behind tend to experience a sensation of emptiness, those who go away of frustration. That’s when both the traveler and the person who stays at home look at the airport and realize that it is an island.

 

II

Other people, people who love danger, like airports because they know that in them one is always about to lose or miss something.

Some people arrive at the last minute, forgetting promises and suitcases; they appear light and airy, as if upon boarding the plane they could leave behind the past as easily as an old overcoat. Then the stewardess announces, ‘Fasten your seatbelts securely,’ and the man finally sighs and restrains what he was about to lose.

Other people arrive at the airport with a lot of time to spare: half asleep, as if under the influence of a mild sedative, they take to the airport as if it were their mother’s womb. They stretch their legs, yawn, smile innocently, slowly smoke their cigarettes, read magazines, look out the windows. None of this is to say that they board the plane on time: the wait is so pleasant that often, feeling drowsy, they decide to remain on the airport bench, lulled by the maternal voices of stewardesses who monotonously announce numbers and names.

Those who travel least are doubtless flies: they’re afraid of heights. On a flight from Montreal to New York, however, I came across one. It was fat and confused, like those female passengers who arrive late and are afraid they’re at the wrong gate. It finally landed on my neighbor’s bald spot. We couldn’t open the window to let it out, even though it was very dizzy - we’d never committed a crime at that altitude. We were gliding along up at twenty-nine thousand feet. I don’t know whether the fly was feeling more vertigo or if I was.

 

III

At the Toronto airport an unusual conference was held - for travelers who have never managed to depart. Invitations were sent out by mail and a satellite network was used to simultaneously broadcast the sessions at different airports. Travelers arrived by car or train from their respective parts of the country. Toronto was the clearinghouse for information and the site where discussions were held. From the comfort of leather chairs that would never fly, participants from various parts of the world told their stories. There were silver ashtrays, almond bags, coasters with the names of different international airports on them, duty-free cigarettes, imported liqueurs, and, on the table, an exquisite silver tower with a plane that flew circles around it and would quiver with the slightest change in atmospheric pressure.

For one reason or another, none of the participants had ever been able to leave the airport. Initially discouraged for perfectly understandable reasons, they had finally given up on their trips, once their excuses became less plausible. Although the number of travelers unable to depart from one particular airport (which will remain unnamed) might raise suspicions that there are people blocking the movements of travelers, the consensus was that these were random, unorchestrated events. A man who had tried unsuccessfully to depart from the Copenhagen airport twenty-five times was named Honorary President. Honorary mentions were given to stationary passengers at the London, Ezeiza, and Santiago airports. But the most popular figure was the would-be traveler from New York who rented a lounge at JFK where he could conduct his business affairs, receive visitors, and enjoy his leisure time.

At first, he returned home every evening to his white-trimmed house located just past the wrought-iron bridge over the Hudson. But traffic jams, unforeseeable accidents, and fatigue convinced him that it would be preferable to not only work at the airport but also to sleep there. He didn’t need a television set because airport lounges are full of them; the heat was free; the showers were excellent; and he never had to go far to find someone to talk with. By sleeping in the rented airport lounge, he even saved on taxes. He could always meet with busy clients who were on their way somewhere, and he avoided long, lonesome nights of insomnia in bed with his wife. All he had to do was take a few steps and he was right in front of the huge window where he could see the planes arriving day and night. It was stimulating, exciting. He could always exchange a few words with arriving passengers - about the weather, inflation, politics in other countries, floods, epidemics, movie premieres. Another advantage of living in the airport is that cigarettes are always available because the shops never close: can you imagine the pleasure of buying a pack of Marlboros at four in the morning without leaving your bedroom? The airport had twenty-four-hour medical services, the restaurant food was just as bad as anywhere else, and most of the girls sliding down the polished corridors were pleasant and nice.

The conference lasted three days. When it was over, the participants returned to their respective homes by car, bus, or train. Many turned around for a last nostalgic look at the airport.