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.