On unfortunately small torpedos, electric chivalry and other reasons to love airports

In a consistent and, I guess, reassuring example of anti-profiling, egalitarian security screening, I am pulled aside every single time I go through the line at the airport these days. The fault is entirely my own and caused (in addition, one assumes, to the “blindness” of random checks) by my silver, fully insulated water bottle that looks unfortunately like a very small torpedo. I insist on traveling with this water bottle, purchased in Abu Dhabi and a constant companion ever since. It is sleek, fits in my backpack and keeps water cold for days.

It also means that I’m inevitably shuffled into that space between metal detectors, prevented from touching my belongings (the backpack, a rolling bag and two of those plastic bins), which are then swabbed (along with my hands) to make sure I haven’t nuzzled up to any plastique or dynamite recently. The water bottle is opened, peered into (it’s always empty), hefted (the insulation makes it heavier than it looks), shaken, turned upside-down and swabbed especially. I always want to say, “It’s just a water bottle, not a bomb.” But I know better than to say the word “bomb” within 10 miles of a modern security line. I’m rarely patted down, though sometimes get the wand twittering around the belt loops of my jeans. Often, I don’t stop reading my Oprah magazine or Kindle. One affable Homeland guy in Newark suggested I get a new water bottle. But I don’t want a new water bottle. The security pit stop has become part of my travel routine, like the two plastic bins, a glossy magazine, pre-flight coffee and, depending on turbulence, the only time I ever drink soda anymore (ginger ale, if airsickness strikes).

This might sound surprising (or just weird), but I cannot remember the last time I was annoyed in an airport. I’ve been nervous and uncertain, discouraged and bewildered, but never bothered or bored. To me, airports are among the most delightful of our public spaces. They contain endless possibility (so many destinations, so many people intersecting on their individual trajectories). They are perfect backdrops as opposed to destinations in themselves (which make them different than parks or plazas, also great public spaces but much less neutral and people-centered).

Take, for example, this morning waiting for my flight from Austin to San Francisco. The gate was full of the usual suspects: sleepy kids, business travelers juggling coffee and newspapers, adults of all ages peering at phone screens. The electrical outlets, placed near the floor years ago with only the vacuum cleaners of late-night janitors in mind, are now the most sought-after spots in the lounge. A woman about my age in a long, patterned skirt sat on the carpet syncing her laptop and iPad. In an enchanting demonstration of courtesy, a businessman offered her his place on the chair nearest another outlet where his phone was charging. He made clear with his gestures that he was prepared to relinquish not only his seat but also his source of electricity, so that she wouldn’t have to sit on the floor. This exchanged caused me no end of happiness. Many people in Austin are fantastically nice, and many men in Texas are reliably chivalrous. But this was such a charming display of old-world manners and modern sensibilities. It probably made my week. And it could only have happened at the airport.

I think the nation could use a pro-airport campaign, something to remind us all that it's not just about walking barefoot through metal detectors (or x-ray machines), enduring long waits and paying ridiculous amounts for a snack or 60 minutes of wi-fi. It's time you have to spend anyway, so you might as well catch up on reading, reassure others as to the safety of your possessions (torpedo-shaped or otherwise), people-watch, smile at cute toddlers and lend a helping hand. And at the end of it all, you get to fly off to someplace wonderful or come back home. What's not to love?