Randy Fitzgerald

In his old age my dad used to like to go out to the airport in Charlottesville and watch the planes come in. Like so many who were good-sized fellows the first time they ever saw an airplane, he had a lifelong fascination and respect for air travel. He was 16 when the Wright Brothers flew at Kitty Hawk, and a few years older, of course, before the first plane ever flew over his own head. So in his retirement years, he whiled away some hours watching takeoffs and landings.

            I never go to an airport without thinking of him.

            Our daughter Sarah’s holiday visit to London necessitated trips to both Reagan and Dulles airports in Washington recently, and I thought how much Dad would have enjoyed those scenes. The electronic board in International Arrivals at Dulles spoke of worldwide adventure, heralding arrivals from Tokyo, Rome and Riyadh, Singapore and Munich. There were a few places I’d never even heard of, like Narita and Jeddah. Wherever they are, Dad would probably have enjoyed a visit.

            There is a marked difference in the areas set aside for domestic arrivals and international arrivals at Dulles. One can sit a bit mesmerized in the latter, watching the people: the blackest hair, the bluest eye, the women dressed to the nines, looking as though they had just stepped off a flight from Paris—and perhaps they had. Unlike the old days when everyone dressed up to fly, there is a great variety of dress now—from a woman completely swathed in black, head to toe, only her eyes revealed, to the tiniest boy in the tiniest suit and tie I’ve ever seen.

            I played a game with myself, trying to guess people’s nationalities, but I found I wasn’t very good at it. The people who looked most American to me often ended up speaking in unknown languages. Only their babies gave them away. Somehow I was good at spotting “domestic” babies; the international ones all looked exotic to me. Of course, all mothers seem to love their babies the same way—eye-to-eye, cuddles and pats, soft whispers.

            There were a number of drivers, I suppose they were, holding up signs for new arrivals as the travelers came out of customs:  “Olive and Mirate,”  “Mr. Swanson,” and one that just said “Faux.”  As the doors opened and the newcomers swept out into the arrivals area, most of them were looking around expectantly, hoping for family and friends, perhaps. On the other side of the low restraining wall, fathers held their babies high so arriving family members could see, and a man held a dozen roses against his chest, eyes fixed on the customs door each time it swung open.

            I like sitting in airports, but I don’t like the process of getting to either of the ones in D.C.  No matter how many times I go, I’m always a little unsure of each turn, and the signage is never quite clear enough to suit me.  My daughter said, “Which one did you prefer driving to?”

            And the answer was, “Neither one, if I can help it.”

            Like the Mosque, the Nickel Bridge and Cape Canaveral, Reagan will always be National Airport to me—and to my surprise, it continues to be National on about half of the signs going into Washington. I guess if pinned down, I’d say I prefer to drive to National, but I prefer to come home from Dulles.  The route back to 95 from National has too many signs saying “I-95” in too many different directions.

            Whatever else you’ve done in your life, I bet you remember the first time you ever flew. I was a grown man, married, working on my Ph.D. the first time I went up. A family member, a WWII pilot, owned a Swift, and we flew out of the Athens, Ga., airport one clear winter day.  He was such a good pilot and such a smooth talker that he had me convinced there was no way imaginable that that plane could fall from the sky, so I flew with absolute confidence and have done so many times since.

            I do find I enjoy flying less as I age.  The whole security thing is stressful—and for some reason good old Barb always seems to get singled out of the line of boarding passengers for special attention. She’s been wand-ed more times than Cinderella.

            I miss the dressing up, the legroom, and the peanuts and hot towels I used to get on Piedmont.  I understand Dad’s nostalgia for the early days of flight.  Truth is, his generation saw the early years of both cars and planes—and I guess there have been no comparable inventions in the field of transportation for us boomers.

            When I retire, I somehow can’t imagine going downtown and watching the Segway Personal Transporters zoom along the canal walk.