3 July 2006
Airports make my blood pressure rise. They also make me feel excited, sad and jealous depending on whether I’m flying or saying goodbye or greeting someone. Almost every time I go to an airport I feel any combination of these three emotions. I also often feel anxious.
I hate the idea of missing a plane. I hate the idea of being stuck in traffic, or having the car break down, or miscalculating how long it will take to get to an airport. I hate the idea of watching the clock on the way to the airport, watching the hands move towards, and then past, the scheduled departure time, signalling that the plane has most likely flown off without us strapped onto our allocated seats.
In fact the whole process of checking in, passport control, security checks and dealing with luggage are all anxiety catalysts for me. I know I worry too much, but I am sure one day they are going to say ‘Sorry madam, you have too much luggage, and must pay $ XXX in excess baggage’. And the bomb residue tests that they conduct, what happens if my bag comes back positive one day? How do I explain that? Or if someone at passport control doesn’t believe it’s me in the photo, following a change of hairstyle, an upper lip wax or liposuction. Not to mention the security X-ray when they so casually, yet professionally, review the contents of my hand luggage with all the paraphernalia women carry in case of an emergency. How do they know if that long thin thing is a vibrator or a police baton?
Airports are fascinating places though. Once we check in, pass security where one of us is inevitably searched or tested for bomb residue, and we are on the countdown to boarding time I start to relax again. This is my chance to aimlessly wander through the duty free shops and the newsagent mentally buying all those things I’d like. I usually buy nothing, having neither the spare cash nor the space. Once we settle into the boarding gate area, the game of people watching begins. Everyone around us has a story. Some of them have their stories written all over them, or so you assume. The way they dress, the style of hand luggage, how deep their tan is, the snippets of conversation you overhear. Air travel is today very much like getting on a train was last century. You can expect to sit next to just about anyone, from any walk of life.
I had a dream last night; a dream about airports. This in itself tells me that I’m feeling anxious about something. There is something going on that I want to have a better control over. I think I know what it’s about but am startled that it has manifested itself in an airport dream. At what point though does a dream become a nightmare? What level of discomfort, horror and fright does your dream self need to experience for it to qualify as a nightmare? I had a dream last night, but maybe it was in fact a nightmare.
In the dream I arrived at the airport, on Gigi’s motorbike. Parking it in a temporary, soon-to-be-towed-away, zone I rushed into the terminal. I was then aware that I had a number of problems to deal with. It was ‘something’ o’clock. Our flight (for I was with Gi I just didn’t know where he was) was scheduled to depart at forty past ‘something’. It was obviously a domestic flight (Australia) or an intercontinental flight (Europe) as most of the airlines now require you to check in 30 minutes before the flight. No arguing, no questions. If it’s 29 minutes before the flight you miss out. In fact the signs at the Stansted airport clearly state that the check-in counters close forty minutes before the flights scheduled departure time. Forty minutes! No last minute dashing to the airport and purposely striding along the travelator like you own the plane and it can damn well wait, anymore. Suits and backpacks listen up.
Having established that I had less than ten minutes (if that) to queue up, try and queue jump, and check in, I then became painfully aware of the fact that I was almost completely naked; and in dire need of a shower. To be almost completely naked in a dream means (at least for me) that you are aware that there is some part of you not exposed to the airport public, but of course it isn’t any particular of your body that you would choose to have covered. I don’t know what it was I just had a sense that I was wearing something. It could have been a cap, or a wrist watch, or a bandana. As I was standing there, the embarrassment flooding into every pore, I realised I had a towel. It was one of those old scratchy towels your mother might have had in the linen closet during the 1970’s. The type of towel that is good for drying and wrapping up a small child, but anything bigger than that is bound to have something hanging out. Just like those unflattering green hospital gowns that have the string ties at the back. Sure, the towel was better than nothing, but it was impossible for me to secure it around my hips. In fact any attempt to use the towel to cover part of my nakedness left me feeling more flustered. The towel only made me more intensely aware of all the bits that were still on public display.
I had another problem. I’d parked Gigi’s motorbike in a temporary zone. The changes to security following recent acts of terrorism have meant that unattended vehicles, unless parked in the appropriate short or long term areas, are considered a security threat. The last thing we needed was to have Gi’s bike towed away. I knew it would be a long time before we could recover it from the compound, and by then I was afraid that they might have sold it or destroyed it as an unclaimed vehicle.
So, I needed to check in, shower, get some clothes and move Gigi’s motorbike. These all seemed to be high priority problems, none of them less urgent than the others. After seconds of consideration, you know the way your brain quickly assesses problems, processing the pros and cons to establish the best plan of attack, I decided to first check in. Naked! I would just have to convince the check-in counter staff that I would be appropriately attired for the flight.
I don’t remember actually queuing, but I then remembered that I had forgotten to book accommodation at our destination point. I think we were going to Rome, but it is possible that my sleeping brain was drawing on the memory of our recent overnight trauma at the Rome central station.
My two sisters were at the airport. They were sitting on the cold tiles in the check in area, completely oblivious to my dilemmas. Kim was idly eating some egg concoction out of an alfoil tray. Tania seemed disinterested in her surroundings. I kept wondering if I could borrow some clothes from them. I was perplexed why they weren’t helping me, shielding my nudity, offering to go stand by the bike or hold my place in the check in queue.
I couldn’t face the idea of moving the motorbike in the nude. There was something about sitting on the vinyl seat, warm from the sun, in a state of complete undress that struck me as unseemly. Just the thought of straddling the bike, feeling its bulk between my legs felt erotic and highly personal. It wasn’t something that I was going to do under the scrutiny of security guards, taxi drivers and small children.
There was a shower block in the middle of the car park. A grey concrete shower block like the ones built beside swimming pools, or at public schools. I had the small, scratchy towel and I figured I could borrow or steal some soap and shampoo. There was a long queue snaking out the entrance doors, half circling the building. If you’ve ever been on a school camp, or at a popular caravan park, you will understand the problem with long shower queues. People seem to take forever in the shower, especially when they know others are waiting outside, unclean, bored and impatient.
To the side of the shower block I noticed a row of outdoor showers, like the ones at the beach. Avoiding the queue I decided to use them, not caring particularly if the water was cold like it so often is at the beach. Besides, why would you need warm water to remove sand and sea salt? I endeavoured to wash my hair, and went on to wash my body. To my chagrin there was a creepy guy standing nearby, openly perving, enjoying the free exhibition like we were in a strip joint. I again found myself trying to hide my nakedness while juggling the routine of soaping and rinsing; an impossible act. Being closely studied by Mr Creepy was different to being naked inside the terminal. I felt violated and angry at his audacity and vulgarity, if the act of watching without words or actions can be considered vulgar.
I woke up at least twice during the early morning, no longer in the dream but still subconsciously concerned about issues at hand. On both occasions I woke up, experiencing a mild panic, thinking ‘Oh god, I left Gigi’s bike in the temporary parking zone’. Feeling dazed it took me some moments to realise I was in bed, in Naples. I would then remember that we no longer own a car or a motorbike, so there was no way possible that it could be towed away.
Hours later I still have a lingering sensation that I’ve forgotten something. Something on that list didn’t make it into the suitcase. Or I’ve mistakenly packed the razor in my hand luggage. Or I’ve got the flight details written down against the wrong date on the calendar. Not that I need to think about it. The next trip I make to an airport will be to pick up Mum and Dad when they fly into Naples.
But still it’s there…where did I put my passport?
Airports make my blood pressure rise. They also make me feel excited, sad and jealous depending on whether I’m flying or saying goodbye or greeting someone. Almost every time I go to an airport I feel any combination of these three emotions. I also often feel anxious.
I hate the idea of missing a plane. I hate the idea of being stuck in traffic, or having the car break down, or miscalculating how long it will take to get to an airport. I hate the idea of watching the clock on the way to the airport, watching the hands move towards, and then past, the scheduled departure time, signalling that the plane has most likely flown off without us strapped onto our allocated seats.
In fact the whole process of checking in, passport control, security checks and dealing with luggage are all anxiety catalysts for me. I know I worry too much, but I am sure one day they are going to say ‘Sorry madam, you have too much luggage, and must pay $ XXX in excess baggage’. And the bomb residue tests that they conduct, what happens if my bag comes back positive one day? How do I explain that? Or if someone at passport control doesn’t believe it’s me in the photo, following a change of hairstyle, an upper lip wax or liposuction. Not to mention the security X-ray when they so casually, yet professionally, review the contents of my hand luggage with all the paraphernalia women carry in case of an emergency. How do they know if that long thin thing is a vibrator or a police baton?
Airports are fascinating places though. Once we check in, pass security where one of us is inevitably searched or tested for bomb residue, and we are on the countdown to boarding time I start to relax again. This is my chance to aimlessly wander through the duty free shops and the newsagent mentally buying all those things I’d like. I usually buy nothing, having neither the spare cash nor the space. Once we settle into the boarding gate area, the game of people watching begins. Everyone around us has a story. Some of them have their stories written all over them, or so you assume. The way they dress, the style of hand luggage, how deep their tan is, the snippets of conversation you overhear. Air travel is today very much like getting on a train was last century. You can expect to sit next to just about anyone, from any walk of life.
I had a dream last night; a dream about airports. This in itself tells me that I’m feeling anxious about something. There is something going on that I want to have a better control over. I think I know what it’s about but am startled that it has manifested itself in an airport dream. At what point though does a dream become a nightmare? What level of discomfort, horror and fright does your dream self need to experience for it to qualify as a nightmare? I had a dream last night, but maybe it was in fact a nightmare.
In the dream I arrived at the airport, on Gigi’s motorbike. Parking it in a temporary, soon-to-be-towed-away, zone I rushed into the terminal. I was then aware that I had a number of problems to deal with. It was ‘something’ o’clock. Our flight (for I was with Gi I just didn’t know where he was) was scheduled to depart at forty past ‘something’. It was obviously a domestic flight (Australia) or an intercontinental flight (Europe) as most of the airlines now require you to check in 30 minutes before the flight. No arguing, no questions. If it’s 29 minutes before the flight you miss out. In fact the signs at the Stansted airport clearly state that the check-in counters close forty minutes before the flights scheduled departure time. Forty minutes! No last minute dashing to the airport and purposely striding along the travelator like you own the plane and it can damn well wait, anymore. Suits and backpacks listen up.
Having established that I had less than ten minutes (if that) to queue up, try and queue jump, and check in, I then became painfully aware of the fact that I was almost completely naked; and in dire need of a shower. To be almost completely naked in a dream means (at least for me) that you are aware that there is some part of you not exposed to the airport public, but of course it isn’t any particular of your body that you would choose to have covered. I don’t know what it was I just had a sense that I was wearing something. It could have been a cap, or a wrist watch, or a bandana. As I was standing there, the embarrassment flooding into every pore, I realised I had a towel. It was one of those old scratchy towels your mother might have had in the linen closet during the 1970’s. The type of towel that is good for drying and wrapping up a small child, but anything bigger than that is bound to have something hanging out. Just like those unflattering green hospital gowns that have the string ties at the back. Sure, the towel was better than nothing, but it was impossible for me to secure it around my hips. In fact any attempt to use the towel to cover part of my nakedness left me feeling more flustered. The towel only made me more intensely aware of all the bits that were still on public display.
I had another problem. I’d parked Gigi’s motorbike in a temporary zone. The changes to security following recent acts of terrorism have meant that unattended vehicles, unless parked in the appropriate short or long term areas, are considered a security threat. The last thing we needed was to have Gi’s bike towed away. I knew it would be a long time before we could recover it from the compound, and by then I was afraid that they might have sold it or destroyed it as an unclaimed vehicle.
So, I needed to check in, shower, get some clothes and move Gigi’s motorbike. These all seemed to be high priority problems, none of them less urgent than the others. After seconds of consideration, you know the way your brain quickly assesses problems, processing the pros and cons to establish the best plan of attack, I decided to first check in. Naked! I would just have to convince the check-in counter staff that I would be appropriately attired for the flight.
I don’t remember actually queuing, but I then remembered that I had forgotten to book accommodation at our destination point. I think we were going to Rome, but it is possible that my sleeping brain was drawing on the memory of our recent overnight trauma at the Rome central station.
My two sisters were at the airport. They were sitting on the cold tiles in the check in area, completely oblivious to my dilemmas. Kim was idly eating some egg concoction out of an alfoil tray. Tania seemed disinterested in her surroundings. I kept wondering if I could borrow some clothes from them. I was perplexed why they weren’t helping me, shielding my nudity, offering to go stand by the bike or hold my place in the check in queue.
I couldn’t face the idea of moving the motorbike in the nude. There was something about sitting on the vinyl seat, warm from the sun, in a state of complete undress that struck me as unseemly. Just the thought of straddling the bike, feeling its bulk between my legs felt erotic and highly personal. It wasn’t something that I was going to do under the scrutiny of security guards, taxi drivers and small children.
There was a shower block in the middle of the car park. A grey concrete shower block like the ones built beside swimming pools, or at public schools. I had the small, scratchy towel and I figured I could borrow or steal some soap and shampoo. There was a long queue snaking out the entrance doors, half circling the building. If you’ve ever been on a school camp, or at a popular caravan park, you will understand the problem with long shower queues. People seem to take forever in the shower, especially when they know others are waiting outside, unclean, bored and impatient.
To the side of the shower block I noticed a row of outdoor showers, like the ones at the beach. Avoiding the queue I decided to use them, not caring particularly if the water was cold like it so often is at the beach. Besides, why would you need warm water to remove sand and sea salt? I endeavoured to wash my hair, and went on to wash my body. To my chagrin there was a creepy guy standing nearby, openly perving, enjoying the free exhibition like we were in a strip joint. I again found myself trying to hide my nakedness while juggling the routine of soaping and rinsing; an impossible act. Being closely studied by Mr Creepy was different to being naked inside the terminal. I felt violated and angry at his audacity and vulgarity, if the act of watching without words or actions can be considered vulgar.
I woke up at least twice during the early morning, no longer in the dream but still subconsciously concerned about issues at hand. On both occasions I woke up, experiencing a mild panic, thinking ‘Oh god, I left Gigi’s bike in the temporary parking zone’. Feeling dazed it took me some moments to realise I was in bed, in Naples. I would then remember that we no longer own a car or a motorbike, so there was no way possible that it could be towed away.
Hours later I still have a lingering sensation that I’ve forgotten something. Something on that list didn’t make it into the suitcase. Or I’ve mistakenly packed the razor in my hand luggage. Or I’ve got the flight details written down against the wrong date on the calendar. Not that I need to think about it. The next trip I make to an airport will be to pick up Mum and Dad when they fly into Naples.
But still it’s there…where did I put my passport?
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