Airport Post after the fact
I wrote this in the airport, which might explain/excuse it, and was going to post it there, but the wireless network wanted me to pay. I may be spoiled by nearly perpetual free wireless, but I refuse to buy access to the internet for anything more than a few cents. Even then, I’d probably be really uncomfortable entering my credit card number.
Meh, that wasn’t the point.
I like airports. Or I would, except I hate airports (and airplanes) for the same reason that everyone else does. People are stressed, they’re paying hundreds of dollars to be demeaned, put their personal belongings at risk by having to carry too many of them around, put their bodies through physical stress due to not enough food and more walking / carrying than usual, and in exchange, get to travel somewhere relatively far away relatively quickly. Not to mention, when they’re actually on the plane, they’re forced into the realization that they’re hurtling along in a rather loud steel tube miles above the ground, and there have been enough horrific news stories about tragic accidents or near misses for everyone to be at least a little stressed.
But at the same time, you get to see rather neat things. People of all walks of life are here, and some of them are in situations where you’d never be able to encounter them otherwise. The guy across from me is a father traveling alone with his son, who can’t help but smile and laugh every time his son moves or makes noise. It’s rather cute - he’s travelling apart from his wife, who has the older two kids with her, and they’ll meet up when they arrive in LA. It’s sweet, even though I imagine it’s stressful for him to be a single parent alone with his kid among strangers on all sides, about to get on a plane where everyone will shoot him dirty looks everytime he makes noise, and stressful because he doesn’t know where his wife is.
There are other things. I’m dressed as strangely as I can reasonably matter. The skirt I made, which I was trying to get to look like sunlight but which came out somewhere between orange and sherbet, but is still rather amazing, a black vest, too many bracelets on the right arm, an oversized men’s sweater, a necklace of skulls carved from animal bone/teeth/antler, and a green purse, two black bags, a kite, and a book I don’t put down and don’t read. Oh, and my new hat, which is black with pinstripes. I figure I look strange enough and have enough bright colors on my person. Which might explain why little kids are so happy to see me - I keep getting grins from them. I do like little kids, because their facial patterns are similar to mine, and they will stare at a person/ make eye contact for any given period of time without recognizing it.
Because people are stressed, the slightest nicety makes the world of difference. You could be rude, which they’re half expecting and will willingly counter with more rudeness, or you can smile, offer to let someone pass, wish them a good day, ask them where they’re headed and why, etc. And they’ll respond and be noticeably happier for it. I LIKE that. I like the gratification of getting people to smile because of a 30 second (or less) interaction.
There’s other things. Because of how I’m dressed, people who would never acknowledge me do so. Food service workers treat me with a little more formality, I suppose because I don’t look like your average college student. The college grad with longish hair, black skinny jeans, a white band t-shirt and a barbed wire armband tattoo (who’s now sitting staring at his blackberry, periodically changing the screen but not really doing anything) gave me a startled nod before sitting down (I don’t think he knew he was going to nod at me until he did). I approve of his tattoo - it’s not tribal in that it’s not solid black, and the barbs are red the way thorns on a rosebush are red (faint tinging of the stem, I’m not talking about an imagined romanticism), without being overly corny and dripping blood. Of course, he also has half a side lip piercing, which just looks ridiculous. If he were younger, he could do the full snakebite, but he’s at an age where he should avoid putting holes in his face.
Other people don’t notice me. The early boarder with a fat metal briefcase with “ERROR 404” written on it with duck tape brushed by me without acknowledgement, but judging by his bushy black (natural) Mohawk and long beard-braid, that’s his style.
Mind you, I’m writing this in Texas, so people are different anyway. The airport representative who met the plain to give info on connections was overly familiar, which annoyed me, and made a joke that I responded to with sincerity - had I called to let them know I was coming? well, no, but I sent them an email so they should be expecting me. Which is true, in a way, and the only reason the interaction was annoying was because I had just stopped off the plane and was in the blind stress mode one is often in upon stepping off of a plane. (He should’ve waited until I’d had my next coffee dose). I’m not used to representatives who go out of their way to do their job, and so was figuring I wouldn’t even bother with it.
On second thought, other guy’s barbed wire tattoo isn’t the only one here. I could 5. I wonder if that means something? A different bearded guy sitting across from me with his wire (too youthfully dressed for her age, but more or less attractive) has three strands, with a dragon fly on the other arm. Huh.
I think I’m going to stop typing now and stare at the three muzzled german shepards who were just walked by. They’re pretty - I wonder what they’re being trained for.
Meh, that wasn’t the point.
I like airports. Or I would, except I hate airports (and airplanes) for the same reason that everyone else does. People are stressed, they’re paying hundreds of dollars to be demeaned, put their personal belongings at risk by having to carry too many of them around, put their bodies through physical stress due to not enough food and more walking / carrying than usual, and in exchange, get to travel somewhere relatively far away relatively quickly. Not to mention, when they’re actually on the plane, they’re forced into the realization that they’re hurtling along in a rather loud steel tube miles above the ground, and there have been enough horrific news stories about tragic accidents or near misses for everyone to be at least a little stressed.
But at the same time, you get to see rather neat things. People of all walks of life are here, and some of them are in situations where you’d never be able to encounter them otherwise. The guy across from me is a father traveling alone with his son, who can’t help but smile and laugh every time his son moves or makes noise. It’s rather cute - he’s travelling apart from his wife, who has the older two kids with her, and they’ll meet up when they arrive in LA. It’s sweet, even though I imagine it’s stressful for him to be a single parent alone with his kid among strangers on all sides, about to get on a plane where everyone will shoot him dirty looks everytime he makes noise, and stressful because he doesn’t know where his wife is.
There are other things. I’m dressed as strangely as I can reasonably matter. The skirt I made, which I was trying to get to look like sunlight but which came out somewhere between orange and sherbet, but is still rather amazing, a black vest, too many bracelets on the right arm, an oversized men’s sweater, a necklace of skulls carved from animal bone/teeth/antler, and a green purse, two black bags, a kite, and a book I don’t put down and don’t read. Oh, and my new hat, which is black with pinstripes. I figure I look strange enough and have enough bright colors on my person. Which might explain why little kids are so happy to see me - I keep getting grins from them. I do like little kids, because their facial patterns are similar to mine, and they will stare at a person/ make eye contact for any given period of time without recognizing it.
Because people are stressed, the slightest nicety makes the world of difference. You could be rude, which they’re half expecting and will willingly counter with more rudeness, or you can smile, offer to let someone pass, wish them a good day, ask them where they’re headed and why, etc. And they’ll respond and be noticeably happier for it. I LIKE that. I like the gratification of getting people to smile because of a 30 second (or less) interaction.
There’s other things. Because of how I’m dressed, people who would never acknowledge me do so. Food service workers treat me with a little more formality, I suppose because I don’t look like your average college student. The college grad with longish hair, black skinny jeans, a white band t-shirt and a barbed wire armband tattoo (who’s now sitting staring at his blackberry, periodically changing the screen but not really doing anything) gave me a startled nod before sitting down (I don’t think he knew he was going to nod at me until he did). I approve of his tattoo - it’s not tribal in that it’s not solid black, and the barbs are red the way thorns on a rosebush are red (faint tinging of the stem, I’m not talking about an imagined romanticism), without being overly corny and dripping blood. Of course, he also has half a side lip piercing, which just looks ridiculous. If he were younger, he could do the full snakebite, but he’s at an age where he should avoid putting holes in his face.
Other people don’t notice me. The early boarder with a fat metal briefcase with “ERROR 404” written on it with duck tape brushed by me without acknowledgement, but judging by his bushy black (natural) Mohawk and long beard-braid, that’s his style.
Mind you, I’m writing this in Texas, so people are different anyway. The airport representative who met the plain to give info on connections was overly familiar, which annoyed me, and made a joke that I responded to with sincerity - had I called to let them know I was coming? well, no, but I sent them an email so they should be expecting me. Which is true, in a way, and the only reason the interaction was annoying was because I had just stopped off the plane and was in the blind stress mode one is often in upon stepping off of a plane. (He should’ve waited until I’d had my next coffee dose). I’m not used to representatives who go out of their way to do their job, and so was figuring I wouldn’t even bother with it.
On second thought, other guy’s barbed wire tattoo isn’t the only one here. I could 5. I wonder if that means something? A different bearded guy sitting across from me with his wire (too youthfully dressed for her age, but more or less attractive) has three strands, with a dragon fly on the other arm. Huh.
I think I’m going to stop typing now and stare at the three muzzled german shepards who were just walked by. They’re pretty - I wonder what they’re being trained for.