fort lauderdale

The Fort Lauderdale Airport is mean.

We arrived, tired and sweaty, after two hours in the exit line from the cruise ship, dulled by the swarm of other tired, sweaty people, misplaced luggage, customs, finding cash for the porter, climbing into a taxi.  The twelve feet from the taxicab to the airport door smelled like Florida: hot saltwater air and cigarettes.  I reflected fondly on the many vacation-associated memories dredged up by that smell as we dragged our (well, mostly my) luggage into the airport.

It started out pleasantly enough.  I honed in like a shorthair pointer on the luggage scale and made a beeline for it to fuss over the weight distribution of my suitcases (I wound up paying an extra hundred dollars on the trip down for heavy luggage, ugh).  That accomplished, we checked in, checked our bags, traded cruise-travel banter with the white Jamaican attendant (years of trying to cultivate my own awareness of racial privilege and I'm still an idiot at it), and got wearily in line for the security check.  My bags dragged my spine into a curve never intended by nature.  My back hurt. My hair wisped wildly around my shiny, bare, vacation-blurred face. I just wanted to sit down.

I hate getting bullied by airports.  The staff barked out orders suited to wayward, stupid dogs, rolling their eyes at the slow responders.  "Shoes off.  OFF.  OFF.  YOU DO NOT NEED that bin for that bag.  Sweatshirt off.  Over here.  Keep moving.  Laptop BY ITSELF.  SHOES OFF."  The line of people scurried to obey, looking harassed and cuffed and cowed.

I think the airport personnel would have pushed us if they'd been allowed.  I can imagine what a shit job that must be, but I also know from experience that shit jobs are made less shitty by exchanging kindness with people.

Now they're informing us that the full flights are very full and we will not be allowed to take our standard one carry-on and one personal item; larger carry-ons will be taken and checked.

Chris and I are finally in seats near the only strip of wall outlets in the terminal, half of which don't work.  We infiltrated the seats like Stoogish spies, hauling our carry-ons nearer and nearer to the bench until finally a seat opened up and I fell over my bare feet to throw my shoes into the seat.  Chris lurked nearby until the seat next to me opened up.

We've been here since 10:00 and our flight doesn't board until 5:45 - another two hours.

Thank all the gods and angels for technology.  I look around, now that the terminal has mostly emptied out, and see bored people engaged in the first world's primary occupation of passing the time, a pursuit made easier by laptops and e-readers and tablets and cell phones.  On the way to the bathroom you can see people contorted into awkward sitting positions on the floor, chained to the walls by the electrical umbilical cords feeding their entertainment devices.  The pizza is good but costs too much.  The day outside would be beautiful if we were anywhere but at an airport.  Angry babies grizzle hollowly over their parents' defeated attempts at pacification.  The most common sound is someone's tired sigh.

So we block out the soul-stripping nothingness of the terminal and pass the time.  Chris is playing Civilization V.  I've read the remaining 60% of Charlie LeDuff's Detroit: An American Autopsy -- extra reading for the training program that we'll book club at some point this week -- a fascinating, devastating account of noir journalism that has left me feeling sad and small and determined to try to do something for the city I'm moving to.

And now I really have to pee.  I hope Chris can save my seat.