Took DH to the airport this morning. By "take," I mean he drove to the airport, and I rode along to bring the truck back. Unwashed, LOL, but at least dressed ;) Our airport is just right at 30 minutes away, but fortunately for me the route is on the toll road, so it's nearly as blessedly quiet as a Montana freeway. And as it skirts the "city" pretty widely, I can fool myself into thinking I AM in Montana and that traffic is not the bugaboo that I think it really is down here where they have actual people livin' and such. I remember the first couple of years we lived in Denver, I was petrified of the airport. I was pretty much petrified of everything, now that I think about it. You just can't pry the small town girl out of me without a lot of whining and clinging to the doorframe with all appendages to keep from hurtling into the great unknown (and likely the Wrong Lane).
Airports are pretty intriguing to me, still. David is traveling at a furious rate this year, what with promoting his new cathodic protection product. So the opportunity to "take" him to the airport has been frequent and almost always interesting. I can remember reading novels written in the 40's & 50's (dear me, I actually almost called it "mid-century" out loud, how revolting) and the heroine was always dressing up to travel by air. Why on earth would you DRESS UP to fly on a plane? I want to know. As far as I am concerned, pajamas should be mandatory on a flight because doggone it, then at least ONE aspect of your life would actually be comfortable that way. It sure as heck (tsk tsk, my language) isn't going to be your seat that's comfy, and you KNOW you're going to get stuck in the middle seat with an armrest hogger on one side and an air vent that mysteriously doesn't work. The sun will probably be rising/setting and will be shining directly through the nasty little window whose shade refuses to come more than 1/3 of the way down, and the waitress... er, stewardess will mysteriously run out of your favorite beverage just one row away from your turn to order... and that doesn't even address the curiously concave shape of your seat or the issue of overhead baggage compartments.
So I'm more than content to remain on the ground and watch the personalities at the airport. The Denver Airport ( good ole DIA - I remember when it opened more than a decade ago with the newspaper heading "DOA" - LOL, we've come a long way, baby, and the luggage system actually works, now) is really quite beautiful, with lots of inlaid granite and our crazy mountain/tent roof to the main terminal. So just trudging along behind my world traveler with the flotsam and jetsam of his luggage is a feast for the senses... well, it's usually early so maybe using the plural there isn't such a good idea, but I can usually scrape up at least one sense (which is good, for as you remember, I'm the one driving the truck home). Add to that the various passengers in parade - there's always one or two fashion-forward gals who wouldn't look out of place in my midcentury modern (ew, I did say it out loud) novels - nary a hair out of place, and click-clacking importantly along the aforementioned inlaid granite hallways in their ridiculously high heeled shoes that make my pinky toe gasp for air just looking at them.
Then you have the family unit. Ma & Pa and one or two kids, aging anywhere from the bright eyed and incredulous primary age up through the blase' jeans-clad teens complete with ipod and disinterested expression. Not sure whether primary Ma & Pa or Teen Ma & Pa looks more rattled and hassled, or maybe just tired. All are wheeling massive suitcases and looking as if they'd rather be alone with their spouse with the deliciously small luggage that betokens scanty outfits and silvery beaches, all-inclusive meals and drinks on the cabana...
Finally DH is through the ticketing and checking in of baggage (demo equipment is a difficult piece, as it is packed in what most closely resembles a gun case, and if you think that doesn't get raised eyebrows at an airport in this day and age, then you haven't been breathing the same air that the rest of us have...) and tucked safely into the security check line with a kiss and a hug and a promise to remember to pick him up. I wend my way back to the parking area and spend a few minutes completely destroying his arrangement of seat position, steering wheel tilt, and mirror placement, and then I'm off through the beautifully silent prairie vista, and homeward bound .