Showing posts with label airport. Show all posts
Showing posts with label airport. Show all posts
March 15, 2016
December 27, 2015
People used to get dressed up to travel.
Columbia, South Carolina, May 1990. Mr. Irene lands in Columbia for the last commuter trip. He arrived moments after Air Force One landed.
I moved from South Carolina the next day, and Mr. Irene accompanied me on the drive back to the Midwest.
June 30, 2015
Maybe I should rethink my boycott* of air travel.
Pierre the French Poodle calms jittery travelers at the Dane County Regional Airport.
*I have flown once in the last twenty-four years. Low carbon footprint, baby.
*I have flown once in the last twenty-four years. Low carbon footprint, baby.
April 9, 2015
January 23, 2014
Short Hop
Ontario, Canada, about 1949 or 1950. Toronto Al's Dad, Vladas, takes a quick flight.
Thanks to Toronto Al for making this photo available to us.
October 26, 2012
August 25, 2012
O'Hare in the Early Days
My childhood home stood less than a fifteen-minute drive from O'Hare. The home was on a runway path, and I used to sit in the living room bay window and read the airline logos on the plane's tails as they landed.
* * * * *
Suburban Chicago, Summer 1962. O'Hare has opened some of its areas for a civilian viewing.
July 31, 2012
Another Air Show
O'Hare International Airport, June 1962. We're visiting an air show again, and we tour a plane assigned to the 4133rd Strategic Wing command.
December 28, 2011
Gate 1: No Smoking Beyond This Point
My Dad snapped this photograph of me as I boarded an airplane at O'Hare International Airport. I was on may way to Venice, Italy, where I'd live for the next year. This was back in the day, before 9/11, when family and friends could accompany airline passengers right up to the departure gate.
I flew from Chicago to Kennedy Airport in New York City. Mr. Irene, who then was just a close friend—not yet a romantic interest—took the train from Connecticut and sat with me during the two-hour layover before the overseas flight departed. Mr. Irene packed a charming picnic basket with bread, Lithuanian sausages, cheese, and wine; we nibbled on the goodies in the travelers' lounge. And then I was gone.
My first stop in Italy was Rome. A family friend—a Vatican priest—met me at the airport, and he gave me a remarkable, three-day tour of the city. I visited spots usually not accessible to tourists.
The only downside about my trip to Rome was the lodging the prelate arranged. I stayed in a convent. A nun knocked on my door at 6:30 the first morning I was there, asking whether she could clean the room. My Italian speaking skills still weren't very good then, and I just yelled, "No, no, no!"
I left Rome and took a second-class train to Venice. From there, I really was on my own.
O'Hare International Airport, October 16, 1983. I still knock around in that London Fog raincoat (and its zip-in lining).
I flew from Chicago to Kennedy Airport in New York City. Mr. Irene, who then was just a close friend—not yet a romantic interest—took the train from Connecticut and sat with me during the two-hour layover before the overseas flight departed. Mr. Irene packed a charming picnic basket with bread, Lithuanian sausages, cheese, and wine; we nibbled on the goodies in the travelers' lounge. And then I was gone.
My first stop in Italy was Rome. A family friend—a Vatican priest—met me at the airport, and he gave me a remarkable, three-day tour of the city. I visited spots usually not accessible to tourists.
The only downside about my trip to Rome was the lodging the prelate arranged. I stayed in a convent. A nun knocked on my door at 6:30 the first morning I was there, asking whether she could clean the room. My Italian speaking skills still weren't very good then, and I just yelled, "No, no, no!"
I left Rome and took a second-class train to Venice. From there, I really was on my own.
O'Hare International Airport, October 16, 1983. I still knock around in that London Fog raincoat (and its zip-in lining).
November 11, 2011
Layover, or Intermission?
When my Parents moved to Suburban Chicago, O'Hare was a military airport. Soon, it evolved into a hub for commercial traffic. O'Hare Airport was a few miles from our home. Growing up, I would look out of the big, bay window in our living room, and I could read the airline names on the tails of the planes as they descended to land.
A visit to the airport was exciting. My Dad would take us there to watch the planes arrive. On the way home, he sometimes stopped at one of the Howard Johnson's Oases over the Illinois Tollway, and we would have a lunch or a snack.
I think about those planes, coming and going, and the people on them, dressed in their 1960s finery and traveling between amazing places. How did they feel when they were between spots? Were they living in the moment, on a brief layover, or did they feel like they were experiencing an "intermission," between the more important acts of a play?
I am working through another intermission now, wondering how the next leg of a trip will go. Pondering that, I remember that it's best to smile when one briefly lands.
It's a deliberately mixed metaphor.
O'Hare Airport, September 1961. I smile for a landing.
A visit to the airport was exciting. My Dad would take us there to watch the planes arrive. On the way home, he sometimes stopped at one of the Howard Johnson's Oases over the Illinois Tollway, and we would have a lunch or a snack.
I think about those planes, coming and going, and the people on them, dressed in their 1960s finery and traveling between amazing places. How did they feel when they were between spots? Were they living in the moment, on a brief layover, or did they feel like they were experiencing an "intermission," between the more important acts of a play?
I am working through another intermission now, wondering how the next leg of a trip will go. Pondering that, I remember that it's best to smile when one briefly lands.
It's a deliberately mixed metaphor.
O'Hare Airport, September 1961. I smile for a landing.
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