From the Rennaissance, it’s a Great Idea . . .
In spite of the decidedly Sufjanesque meter to flying New York-to-Chicago-via Michigan, I’ve resolved never again to fly into Detroit-Metropolitan-Wayne County Airport (which is neither "Detroit", nor "Metropolitan", but by all marks unabashedly "Wayne County") for any reason. Period. I’ve held various iterations of this view over the course of the past decade, beginning back in 1998 with my first ever connecting flight therein. From D.C.
Northwest is a terribly uncomfortable airline for one thing. Fond as they are of AIRBUS and it’s three-abreast(1) seating plan. They also make you pay ONE DOLLAR for, get this, TRAIL MIX. Not pretzels. Not honey roasted peanuts. One dollar for fucking cashew raisins with almonds. And the more raisins than cashew. It tickles me, Northwest Airlines, to see that you hold my wellbeing in such high esteem, especially when yours is one of the oldest fleets in the sky, as evidenced by the very troublesome swerves performed as we taxied turbulently in the skies over Romulus.
By the way, what the hell kind of a name for a town is Romulus? Is their high school’s team name the "Teatsuckers"? Even my favorite musical Michiganian of the moment had nothing positive to say about the place. To wit:
Once when our mother called,
She had a voice of last year’s cough.
We passed around the phone,
Sharing a word about Oregon.
When my turn came, I was ashamed.
When my turn came, I was ashamed.
Once when we moved away,
She came to Romulus for a day.
Her Chevrolet broke down.
We prayed it’d never be fixed or found.
We touched her hair, we touched her hair.
We touched her hair, we touched her hair.
When she had her last child, Once when she had some boyfriends, some wild.
She moved away quite far.
Our grandpa bought us a new VCR.
We watched it all night, but grew up in spite of it.
We watched it all night, but grew up in spite of it.
We saw her once last fall.
Our grandpa died in a hospital gown.
She didn’t seem to care.
She smoked in her room and colored her hair.
I was ashamed, I was ashamed of her
I was ashamed, I was ashamed of her
I was ashamed, I was ashamed of her
I was ashamed, I was ashamed of her
-Sufjan Stevens, "Romulus"
And then the airport itself. Back in 1998, it was one of the most dank and hideous spaces I’ve ever seen in commercial aviation. I wasn’t expecting anything on the order of Amsterdam Schiphol or Paris-CDG2, but what I got looked almost liked the third word equivalent of Milwaukee’s unlovely, but still likeable, Mitchell Field. Worse yet, this was pre-TSA, the woman at the security check point had a horribly infected right cartilage from a piercing gone awry. Back then, they promised a new Midfield Terminal to be completed by 2001. Presumably free of auricular chondritis.
Fast forward to 2003. Said terminal now complete. Just over a full mile in length, with twice as much space for moving sidewalks and an indoor monorail. There are dancing fountains. And an underground passageway connecting another miles worth of concourse decorated with, get this, flashing neon lights and ethereal mood music. My then-still-easily-wounded Chicagoan sensibilites wondered where I might have seen this before.
But alas, no matter, the concourse was wide and filled with light. The desk agents could talk shop with you about what The White Stripes were like before they got big. The eating options were plentiful too; most notably National Coney Island and its ever-popular Hani Special (2). Also a Max & Erma’s. Jose Cuervo’s Tequileria. And plenty of Vernor’s ginger ale to go around. Alas, over subsequent visits I would notice something critical about most of these establishments: I would never have time to eat in any of them because, invariably, my flight would arrive at gate A1 where my connecting flight was waiting for me at gate A80, leaving me, with all my carryon as is my wont, to negotiate a good mile and a half worth of crowded moving sidewalks. Where the indoor monorail runs only on one track and that you manage to miss by a hair without fail each and every single time.
I would arrive at my flight harried and sore. Only to spend the next hour of my life in mortal fear of my safety. No more.
There are simply not enough nautical miles between here and Chicago to justify more than one takeoff and landing per leg. American is probably no more comfortable than Northwest, but they don’t have the audacity to make me pay for peanuts. Also, I’m free from the urge to pray constantly to a god that probably can’t do much about the turbulence. Delta’s Chicago service is limited but their seats are comfey, their planes nearly empty, and the flight attendants more than willing to let you pack up on the service items. My options are several.
As for D-Troit and its KLMNorthwestContinentalSkyTeamworldgateway? Well, I’ve had quite enough Hani Special. Bland and prone to falling apart, it does not rise to level of its decidedly more savory and fastened namesake. And for Vernor’s Ginger Ale? Turns out, I can order it online by the case. I will manage.
And for Michigan, the Great Lakes State? Though its stock rate among my most favorite people in the world, turns out I don’t care much for the place. Its state universities for one thing, both of which I hate (one out of envy, the other out of pity). It’s penchant for armed militias and rampant arson. Kid Rock. That weird way they say the word "salad". The view from Detroit out the cabin window, its Grand Circus empty, it’s skyline largely abandoned. Like Newark only more dense. And then the five towers of the Rennaissance Center, sitting souless on the Riverfront. The crown now capped condescendingly by the GM logo. Prime maniacal risibility. Like I was taught to believe when we first read Faulkner back in high school.
No time for Faulkner now. Not when I’ve got a flight to catch.
(1) heheh . . . he said, "breast"
(2) Vote now!
