THE INNER WORKINGS...

the runway to (not quite) nowhere.

It's been too long. I'm fully aware. No need to lather-on the guilt, please.

I'm not going to talk about how long it's been. There are plenty of other archived posts that gush with vacuous apologies for extended absences. I'm just going to get back to business. Because that's the way we do it around here. (Well, to be precise, it's never quite been the way we've done things around here. But now it is. The wonders of the fickle and flexible internet world. Incredible, really.)

Last week marked visit #4 to a place that, for the life of me, I never would have imagined going even once. Not that I had been morally opposed to this place. Nor was it particularly difficult to get to. It's just that... well... it's a particular corner of the country whose existence, to be honest, I had never really contemplated. And yet, there it was, printed boldly across the top of my American Airlines boarding pass: Northwest Arkansas Regional Airport. That's right, friends. Not even the (not-so-booming) metropolis of Northwest Arkansas can escape the (quite literal and borderline inappropriate) grip of the TSA.
You might be wondering why I've frequented this haven of rural jet-setting a whopping four times. Clearly you've forgotten that the patriarchs of the clan moved to Oklahoma. Rural Oklahoma. As in only-an-hour-and-a-half-away-from-the-not-so-booming-metropolis-of-Northwest-Arkansas Oklahoma. That and the fact that I'm doing research for a freelance article on the vast array of ways that automatic (no-touch) technology is being utilized in women's restrooms in airports across the country. (Really, men, you're missing out on a lot of fun - and possibly confusion. But more on that another day.) And it really is a pleasant place to frequent, with about six gates, two baggage carousels, one token bronze statue (the mainstay of any North American airport), and absolutely no waiting in a security line.

But the punchline of our story set in this particular upper left corner of Mr. Clinton's state happened on visit #3. It was the day after Christmas, and giddy with the spirit of consumption, I was purchasing a magazine heralding the 100 most influential people of the year. (Because, as you would know by the flagrant way I live my life, I like to keep up with pop culture. But that's beside the point.) And as I sidled up to the cash register, a sweet, unassuming, teenaged, Northwest Arkansan was conversing with her co-worker. He (the menacing co-worker) was mentioning some of the benefits of this particular airport not being as big as others. Our sweet, unassuming cashier stopped ringing up my intellectually-stimulating reading material, and with wide eyes looked at me genuinely stupefied. "There are airports bigger than this?" she gasped.

Sensing that our sweet, unassuming friend's innocence was hanging in the balance, I measured my words carefully. I couldn't lie. But I didn't want to burst the proverbial Northwest Arkansan bubble either. I smiled, nodded, and said, "A bit bigger, yeah."

Then, with the satisfaction of having gently nudged (but not brutally expunged) the first of many Northwest Arkansan teenagers' worldviews, I happily jaunted over to see 21st century technology at work in the women's lavatory. For the research, you know.

posted by Courtney @ 2:54 AM