Photography by Whitney Curtis
In an airport, you are placeless, caught in a brightly lit in-between that has neither the ease of home nor the intrigue of destination. Everyday life is suspended, the only tether your smartphone. “Free Wi-Fi!” a young woman from Columbus, Ohio, says gratefully. It’s only for 20 minutes, but she’ll learn that soon enough. She’s absorbed in her screen. Solitary travelers stare down at their phones as they walk, as they queue, as they wait by the baggage carousel. It all feels a bit futuristic, anonymous, disconnected.
Look again, and the airport is the most intimate place you’ve ever been. Travelers sob and argue, embrace and fuss, strip off outer garments, press against the flesh of strangers, snore, gulp Xanax, change their lives. “Thank you, soldier, for all you do,” a middle-aged man says fervently. Another guy wipes away tears after hugging his daughter, a ponytailed blonde in combat fatigues. A little boy in Mickey Mouse ears high-fives an airport staffer who pushes his frail grandpa’s wheelchair. Two teenage girls, one with rubber-banded braces, sprawl on the ground, playing 2048 on a smartphone and waiting to fly to Atlanta and then London.
Some folks shop: pillows; chargers; a beans, beer, and brats soup mix from the Discover St. Louis shop. Nervous travelers find bars. “I’ve been doing this for 25 years,” says a lean woman in a crisp white shirt who tends bar at the Missouri Vineyard restaurant, “and I’ve heard some stories. I don’t judge.” She carries a hock glass of white wine to a young woman alone with her laptop. A mother with a screaming, zigzagging toddler eyes it enviously.
Those in need of a deeper peace find the chapel, or a chaplain finds them. The Rev. Gene Brennan walks one concourse per day. Often, he finds himself giving practical help to stranded, lost, or frantic travelers—which feels just as Christian as hearing pilots’ confessions and saying noon Mass. His regulars are employees—both “above the wing” (attendants, customer service) and “below the wing” (baggage handlers, mechanics). Others kneel on a Muslim prayer rug or wait for the Protestant weekend services. Travelers take advantage of anonymity and pour out financial or marital troubles.
Not as many visit Greg Brown, who’s been bringing Hare Krishna literature here for 33 years. The airport pushed back, so he can’t roam in a saffron robe anymore; he wears a beige polo shirt and stands in front of a disclaimer, next to the security line. “Maybe 5 percent of people are interested,” he says. “Maybe less.” But he’s met celebs—“George Foreman, Ray Charles, Smokey Robinson, Johnny Cash before he left us”—and people of every nationality. “The airport’s like going all over the world distributing the books,” he says, “but you can do it in one place.”
Alas, travelers tend to be preoccupied—unless they’re under age 5. A girl at The Magic House’s new play area fetches foam suitcases for her mother, who obediently boards the miniature MetroLink, while her daughter runs back to the baggage conveyor belt.
At the big baggage carousels, adults do the same. A guy from Brighton, England, and his American wife—who’s wearing a purple ombré T-shirt that reads “Believe! Achieve! Sparkle!”—have come to St. Louis for the Show Me Scentsy Spirit convention. They met on the Internet and now have four kids.
It doesn’t always go that well. Retirees show up “just about every week, waiting for somebody they met online,” says Dorothy Spates, who works at the nearby information desk. “They wait for hours, holding a picture, and the person never comes. Usually, it’s Nigerian fraud, but the photos can be Caucasian or African. One lady had a photo of a very handsome gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair, probably scanned from a magazine ad. She said, ‘I sent him $10,000 from my retirement fund. I can’t tell my children—they’ll kill me!’ Some people come back two or three times.”
Finally they give up and exit, alongside boisterous families, solitary business executives, and reunited lovers, into the dim, muggy garage. Most pause at the curb to get their bearings. The tension of travel dissolves. A new layer rises to the top: Where’s the car? How will my life restart?
