![On the back of a Dragonfly [B&W]](http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6194/6128449851_14ec409b56_s.jpg "On the back of a Dragonfly [B&W]")
WHERE ARE THE EXITS?
I refuse to ride the Delta shuttle anymore. I've been on it four times already. Whatever seconds of reprieve it offers me from the stale, caramel popcorn-smelling world of the Cincinnati airport just isn't worth it.
They won't let me out of the airport. In my search for a place to nab fresh air before my connecting flight, I was told by airport staff (who relayed the information with a disturbing smirk), "We don't let you out. Once you're in, you're in." Security, he explains. Terrorism.
The current security level is orange, says the loudspeaker.
I just had what one could safely say was a nauseating flight from LaGuardia in New York City to Cincinnati, Ohio - the turbulence led at least a handful of my fellow passengers to reach for, and use, their vomit bags. Now, I'm off the plane, and all my churning stomach wants is some fresh air. But everywhere I turn I am blocked: long windowed corridors end in Borders and Auntie Anne's Pretzels, while the only doors I see are guarded by a woman with a Stepford-like smile who nods pointedly at the ‘No Exit' signs whenever I approach.
At this point I'm asking two airport workers to try and find an out. I've declared the airport to be the seventh ring of hell. I'm surrounded by a sunny day that I can't touch, or smell. And then, it happens. Looking at me like I'm crazy (I do think the whites of my eyes were showing), they both ask: "Why would you want to go outside?"
I'm stunned. Were these people really asking why I wanted to go outside? Has society really come to this. That a request to go out for fresh air makes people look at you like you are going off the handle? Is that desire so abnormal these days? I stood there feeling like I was in The Twilight Zone. And I stood there disheartened, that national security -- supposedly ensuring my peace of mind -- was locking me down.
The worker who thought me especially crazy offered this suggestion: that I ride the shuttle between concourses for some fresh air (but I was "not to tarry" on my way to and from the airport and the bus).
What other choice do I have? To the shuttle I go. On the other side of that door is a 1.2 second meander "outside," and then it's a rocking, brake tapping tour across the parking lot between Concourse C and A. Four times I looped around before I gave up (and before the guards at the door started to become suspicious of my repeated journeys). I entered the airport to succumb to the insulation of it all. I have just bought a sandwich made out of processed meat and a Diet Coke; I am eating apples out of a hermetically-sealed plastic bag and am sitting under what I'm sure is a PVC-filled plastic Christmas tree. I am part of 2008's status quo.
The current security level is orange, says the loudpeaker.
They won't let me out of the airport. In my search for a place to nab fresh air before my connecting flight, I was told by airport staff (who relayed the information with a disturbing smirk), "We don't let you out. Once you're in, you're in." Security, he explains. Terrorism.
The current security level is orange, says the loudspeaker.
I just had what one could safely say was a nauseating flight from LaGuardia in New York City to Cincinnati, Ohio - the turbulence led at least a handful of my fellow passengers to reach for, and use, their vomit bags. Now, I'm off the plane, and all my churning stomach wants is some fresh air. But everywhere I turn I am blocked: long windowed corridors end in Borders and Auntie Anne's Pretzels, while the only doors I see are guarded by a woman with a Stepford-like smile who nods pointedly at the ‘No Exit' signs whenever I approach.
At this point I'm asking two airport workers to try and find an out. I've declared the airport to be the seventh ring of hell. I'm surrounded by a sunny day that I can't touch, or smell. And then, it happens. Looking at me like I'm crazy (I do think the whites of my eyes were showing), they both ask: "Why would you want to go outside?"
I'm stunned. Were these people really asking why I wanted to go outside? Has society really come to this. That a request to go out for fresh air makes people look at you like you are going off the handle? Is that desire so abnormal these days? I stood there feeling like I was in The Twilight Zone. And I stood there disheartened, that national security -- supposedly ensuring my peace of mind -- was locking me down.
The worker who thought me especially crazy offered this suggestion: that I ride the shuttle between concourses for some fresh air (but I was "not to tarry" on my way to and from the airport and the bus).
What other choice do I have? To the shuttle I go. On the other side of that door is a 1.2 second meander "outside," and then it's a rocking, brake tapping tour across the parking lot between Concourse C and A. Four times I looped around before I gave up (and before the guards at the door started to become suspicious of my repeated journeys). I entered the airport to succumb to the insulation of it all. I have just bought a sandwich made out of processed meat and a Diet Coke; I am eating apples out of a hermetically-sealed plastic bag and am sitting under what I'm sure is a PVC-filled plastic Christmas tree. I am part of 2008's status quo.
The current security level is orange, says the loudpeaker.
Molly Webster is the assistant editor at OnEarth magazine. She is also the science producer for The Takeaway, a radio production from Public Radio International, the New York Times, and the BBC that's causing a radio...Molly Webster is the assistant editor at OnEarth magazine. She is also the science producer for The Takeaway, a radio production from Public Radio International, the New York Times, and the BBC that's causing a radio revolution. Works appear in Scientific American online and National Geographic Adventure, as well as on National Pubic Radio's "Science Friday." Her newest kick: producing podcast's for Nature Medicine.
More
Close