I love Burbank airport. (You’re right: why don’t I marry it?) In truth, most of my affection comes from the airport’s stark contrast to LAX, but it’s more than that. Its ease and my familiarity with its layout and standard operation procedures make a world of difference to someone like me. I can get there and work through everything quickly enough that I can sit at my gate for 45 minutes (or more) before boarding. Like sitting in an empty movie theater well before the film starts, I find that extremely comforting. (I briefly thought about calling my need to get to an airport early my “terminal illness,” but ultimately deemed the pun not quite strong enough to carry that phrase. Good call, no?)
I tried my normal route to Burbank this past Saturday, but construction signs forced me into another direction. If I had already felt short on time, this might’ve been a very unwelcome sight, but I was fine with it. I pulled into my lot of choice and emailed myself that I was near shuttle stop 6. While still in my car, a shuttle bus roared by. Again I was fine, knowing that they come fairly often and that I had plenty of time. (I like the phrase “plenty of time.” I find it very enjoyable; in fact, just saying it might lower my blood pressure.)
So after having a few more sips of coffee from my travel mug, I got out with my bag and walked to the shuttle station. A minute later, a husband and wife joined me there. We exchanged brief salutations and then went back to being strangers. Maybe two or three minutes later, we saw a shuttle coming our way and instinctively grabbed our respective bags and took half-steps forward. It didn’t sound like it was slowing down as it neared us, and my ears didn’t deceive me; it kept going at its normal speed right past us. “Hey!” the man next to me yelled before flailing his arms a bit. The shuttle came to a halt a couple of hundred feet away and began backing up. “Jerk,” the man said, and then he looked at me for support, but I left him metaphorically hanging. I thought “jerk” was too strong for something that looked to be just a mental lapse or missed sighting, but maybe that’s just me.
We got on, and the driver apologized. (See? My non-jerk call might be right after all.) At the next stop, a feeble old man got on with a long carrying case. He sat next to a woman who had been already established herself as the talkative one on our little ride. She turned to the old guy and said with a little laugh, “I’m guessing you don’t have a snowboard in there (cause you’re old as shit)! Hahahaha.” “Pardon?” he said. She repeated her statement, complete with the exact same tone and number of laughs. “Skis,” the old man replied while gesturing toward his bag. “Oh,” she said, before shutting up for the rest of the ride. I spent a minute or so wondering how best to describe that “Oh,” and I settled on a combination of crestfallen, defeated, and embarrassed. Crestfeatassed? Defrestfassed? Embarfeatfallen? Nevermind.
Thanks to the ease of Southwest (if you’re not fat, that is), I already had my boarding pass in hand when I entered the terminal. Security only took a couple of minutes, thanks to the minimal line, the “express lane” for seasoned travelers, and my Clooney-esque ability to do everything asked of me a step ahead of time. (I put my phone, watch, wallet, etc. in my bag’s front compartment while walking to the security area so that I only had to slip off my shoes, take off my jacket, and lay the bag flat before walking through the metal detector. I imagine people glanced over and thought, “Wow, he really knows what he’s doing. I hope to be that awesome of a traveler one day. And boy does he look like a young George Clooney!”)
From that point, it was continued smooth sailing. The only hitch in the entire process from pulling into the parking lot to lifting off the ground was that I didn’t find the right kind of puzzle book at the magazine/book stand in the terminal. That’s ok; my iPod more than occupied me during my soothing extended-waiting period. All told, my Burbank Airport (or technically Bob Hope Airport) experience was predictably easy and worry-free. And if you think it’s weird that I’m writing a modified love note to an airport, then you clearly haven’t been to LAX in a while.