LAXadaisical
Unless you’re one of those guys whose job it is to hold up little printed signs and pick up strangers in black Lincoln Towncars, trips to LAX (which don’t directly involve you in the travel plans) are often emotionally split right down the middle with little gray area in which to frolic.
Arrivals: happy. Departures: sad.
And after about twenty years of ping-ponging between LAX and the Valley, you tend to learn a thing or two.
For example, you know that traffic always gets shitty around Wilshire and again at the 405/10 interchange, so you have to leave early, unless it's three in the morning. You know that you need to stay in the left lane of Century Boulevard for arrivals and in the middle lane for departures. (Try not to get blinded by the Live Nude Girls XXX bar on the right or the giant Celine Dion Caesar’s Palace billboard on the left.)
Once officially on airport grounds, you know that the Tom Bradley International Terminal is terminal number four (right after the turn) and how it’s the one terminal that actually serves food, sells magazines and has actual chairs (which are actually quite comfortable by airport standards) to sit in. You know that LAX tends to reek of car horns, plane fuel and the ever so nauseating aroma of travel (i.e., clashing perfumes, recycled air and bad fluorescent lighting.)
It also no longer surprises you that parking prices are through the roof or that the guy in the suit who utterly rams your foot with his luggage cart will never actually mumble a quick apology under his breath in passing, much less stop to do so formally.
Oh, and remember the button that reads “Push Button: Wait for Walk Signal?” Yeah, to that I’m going to have a shirt made that reads: “I already pressed the button you stupid moron! You just saw me do it because you were standing right next to me! Do you think that you have magical powers? I wish you would’ve told me that you’d push it again so I could’ve been spared from touching that yellow hued playground of disease and infestation altogether!”
Nevertheless, as complacent and cynical as I am about LAX, I never forget how lucky I am to have it so close to home. There are people who actually have to drive a couple hundred miles out of their way just to get to some small airport, where they’ll inevitably get on a plane only to get forked out to a bigger airport and so forth. That’s just a great big bowl of suck if I ever ate one.
Granted, entering the diabolical arena of L.A. traffic is quite capable of making you burn through a half tank of gas in a single trip and suck the soul right out of your road raged body; but hey, at least you don’t have to catch a connecting flight. And to that, I say amen.
Arrivals: happy. Departures: sad.
And after about twenty years of ping-ponging between LAX and the Valley, you tend to learn a thing or two.
For example, you know that traffic always gets shitty around Wilshire and again at the 405/10 interchange, so you have to leave early, unless it's three in the morning. You know that you need to stay in the left lane of Century Boulevard for arrivals and in the middle lane for departures. (Try not to get blinded by the Live Nude Girls XXX bar on the right or the giant Celine Dion Caesar’s Palace billboard on the left.)
Once officially on airport grounds, you know that the Tom Bradley International Terminal is terminal number four (right after the turn) and how it’s the one terminal that actually serves food, sells magazines and has actual chairs (which are actually quite comfortable by airport standards) to sit in. You know that LAX tends to reek of car horns, plane fuel and the ever so nauseating aroma of travel (i.e., clashing perfumes, recycled air and bad fluorescent lighting.)
It also no longer surprises you that parking prices are through the roof or that the guy in the suit who utterly rams your foot with his luggage cart will never actually mumble a quick apology under his breath in passing, much less stop to do so formally.
Oh, and remember the button that reads “Push Button: Wait for Walk Signal?” Yeah, to that I’m going to have a shirt made that reads: “I already pressed the button you stupid moron! You just saw me do it because you were standing right next to me! Do you think that you have magical powers? I wish you would’ve told me that you’d push it again so I could’ve been spared from touching that yellow hued playground of disease and infestation altogether!”
Nevertheless, as complacent and cynical as I am about LAX, I never forget how lucky I am to have it so close to home. There are people who actually have to drive a couple hundred miles out of their way just to get to some small airport, where they’ll inevitably get on a plane only to get forked out to a bigger airport and so forth. That’s just a great big bowl of suck if I ever ate one.
Granted, entering the diabolical arena of L.A. traffic is quite capable of making you burn through a half tank of gas in a single trip and suck the soul right out of your road raged body; but hey, at least you don’t have to catch a connecting flight. And to that, I say amen.
posted by Eti at
12:55 AM
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