7/27/2016.
Dear Mishka
You know, when most people think of airports they think of open airy buildings, crowds hustling and bustling (ok, many stressed and rude) spacious bathroom (not the stalls though), airlines like Delta and American Airlines, and stores where you can pay too much for a magazine, a bag of candy, or much needed shot of whiskey in case you just had a 4 hour flight with 6 toddlers and teething infants on board. Even international locations, such as San Juan are viewed thusly Sort of.
Ah San Juan. We can fly in on a nice big jet. Roomy, comfy, and are welcomed by a fully modern air conditioned terminal. But our connection? There's this little bitty airline known as Seaborne. Puddle jumpers they are known as. One over heated flight attendant, wobbly metal stairs to get into a plane 3 seats across, irregular engine noises, possibly duct tape and super glue are involved. These little beasties do not rate a full terminal. So when you leave your tidy, wide seat extra leg room piece of heaven, and yes I say heaven because.... wait for it, the shock sets in.
You collect your nifty new bag and head out to see where your connecting flight is. Oh my, way over there? Ok. Start hoofing. As you twist and turn you notice lights dimming, and sandwich board signs pointing out changes and directing people the other way. Then you see it, a plywood wall across half the hall.
Your destination lies beyond this ominous portal. More nervous toddling along. The lights are visibly dimmed as many overheads have been turned off. The air is getting warmer. The stalls and cafes have all gone dark and are stripped clean. Still you go on through this ghost town. Then you see it, a light at the end of the tunnel. Salvation!
Your tiny gate shares space with only one other puddle jumper (Cape Air). You peek around the corner to find the dead end of the airport. A few dozen seats are there, including a wall desk with a seriously overloaded extension cord powering old lamps and a charging outlet. The desk is manned by a bored looking individual calling the flights as they buzz through. There is a single tv screen tuned to CNN, blasting the latest gossip and mudslinging in our political and judicial system at full volume. And there is no air. Nope. None. Not even a cheap fan. And this is the very end so there are windows all around. In Puerto Rico. Where it's sunny. And hot.
Did I mention the condition of the tiny restroom in this neglected and forgotten no man's land? No? Good. Don't ever ask, just remember summer camp.
If you haven't fainted by the time your flight is called you step outside the door and down a set of scaffolding-like metal stairs, onto the tarmac and are directed around the corner to where your jumper awaits. A baggage handler takes away your shiny new carry on (which has no scuffs or dings) to heave it heartily into the under belly. You head for a truly unstable and frightening set of folding stairs to scrunch into a seat designed for a third grader and wait for them to wind the giant rubber band so you can putter your way to 17,000 feet where you can only look down, out the window and find religion.
Happy Travels!
*honorable mention, this is the only airport I have EVER been in where the stall doors open OUT! Thank God. My carry on and I do not like fighting for space just so I can close a door and achieve the illusion of private peeing.
