Traveling Humanity: Summer Edition

The World God Loves

I might have written this post before—the one where I describe all the lovelies who crowd airports in the busy warm-weather travel season. With this week’s cross-country flight to the West coast, I’m once again dipping a toe in summer’s airborne cultural waters—and they’re heating up nicely. June’s warmth is the traveler’s double-edged sword; it inspires sun-kissed itineraries yet gives license to all sorts of skin-baring and Disney-loving displays (more on that later). For a taste of June travel and its deeper import from the comfort of your home, I’ll walk you through our Atlanta airport scene.

My trip started nicely, with our favorite driver, Allan, making lots of pleasant conversation all the way to the airport. Allan tells us that his Brazilian parents are in town for two months because his wife will give birth any day now. Unfortunately, his dad likes to chatter and watch TikToks at maximum volume; I tell him that his wife must be a very patient woman, unlike me. Allan also hates socialism, so we do have some important things in common. We zip through downtown, and minutes later, he deposits us at the airport’s curbside luggage check.

After waiting in line behind a rap musician, his sound gear, and his herb-infused entourage (in Balenciagas and with pants actually covering backsides—hurray!), I checked our luggage and trudged through TSA’s stream of 2024 humanity. It’s in this snaking line that one sees America in all its glory and infamy. There are the sales guys in golf shirts, the travel sports parent-child combos, the bros in fancy fishing attire, the families with whiny iPad kids (in Crocs, always), and the retirees wearing their museum- or safari-friendly fashions. Then there’s the real people-watching material —the pierced and purple-haired graphic-tee crowd, old men in sandals (no!), and faux celebrities in dark sunglasses, Beats, and track suits. Besting them all are the young pharmaceutical reps, who always look more attractive than everyone else in line.

Once we passed through the grouchy TSA juggernaut, we boarded the plane train. We crammed in with a group of self-identified “gymnastics coaches” who seemed unlikely fits for such a gig—green hair and frumpy looks aren’t very sporty; but the gals were nonetheless cheery and chatty, which counts for athletic spirit, I think. More bodies pack in, and riders politely accommodate a fresh load of unruly rolling bags.

When the train takes off, people lean or stumble awkwardly against one another. Train car passengers want to touch as little as possible of the support poles and straps while somehow remaining upright; I want to touch as few humans as possible, too. (I also begrudge nobody who steps into this cattle car with a mask; I rather envy them.)

We make it to the “B” terminal stop and step off with the gaggle of “coaches”. Next comes the escalator ride to the terminal and its food court. This isn’t the Chick-fil-A terminal, so we must make do with other options. This time, I chose “Fresh to Go,” a breakfast sandwich spot which featured the most delightful and hard-working host—a limping, older black man who patrols the waiting area while continually announcing “we’re so glad to have you.” He performs a nonstop routine that includes a repeat-loop of enthusiastic phrases; “Did I say fresh? Yes, I did!” He reminds everyone that they serve hot coffee, too. We order, the aging entertainer walks our order to us, and we head off to our gate.

When I approach any gate, I immediately scan the crowd to size up our potential for flight drama. (During one flight last year, one of the odd-looking standouts at the gate had a mental breakdown on the flight; she sat in front of me, and the loudspeaker had requested help from “any mental health counselors on the plane”.) This time, my daughter and I had two seats together; who in this crowd would occupy the third seat? Or, who might serve as an in-flight psychiatrist?

This gate looked pretty good, with one special exception positioned across from our available seats: a morbidly obese, orange-haired, pierced and tattooed specimen wearing a Disney-themed Pride purse. Her upper arm provided an ample canvas for her imposing castle tattoo, and she topped things off with a velvety, pink mouse-ears hat. As my mom always says, there’s someone for everyone, and this hairy-legged woman proved the point. She was partnered with a similarly outstanding man with his very own set of tattoos and multiple nose piercings. I’m not sure how the Pride purse related to her heterosexual romance; he played a hand-held Nintendo while she snuggled against him contentedly. We only picked at our Fresh-to-Go meal and trained our eyes on the carpet.

All the early morning preparations came to a head as we finally boarded our 757. We would sit in the rear of the plane—way back by the bathroom and galley. Some may snub this lowly seat assignment, but at least row 43 isn’t stressed about holding things up during the deboarding process. While the back is usually home to crying babies, we were blessedly surrounded by quiet adult passengers. (For the curious, our Disney Pride couple scored seats about ten rows ahead of mine—a blow to my own pride.)

With only a few such trips, you may become a lay anthropologist or perhaps a sociologist, but you may wish to be a theologian. We marvel or shrink before the nameless masses—to which we all belong; but that “God so loved the world” must make us marvel most of all.