Airport Quotes

“People who meet in airports are seventy-two percent more likely to fall for each other than people who meet anywhere else.”
― Jennifer E. Smith, The Statistical Probability of Love at First Sight

“Everyone wanted answers I wasn't ready to give.”
― Lucy Christopher, Stolen

“It was exciting to be off on a journey she had looked forward to for months. Oddly, the billowing diesel fumes of the airport did not smell like suffocating effluence, it assumed a peculiar pungent scent that morning, like the beginning of a new adventure, if an adventure could exude a fragrance.”
― E.A. Bucchianeri, Brushstrokes of a Gadfly

“By any rights, he should be dead. He was involved in an explosion with a bomb, which he happened to be carrying at the time. Conrad is something of a scientific miracle. There are more than thirty metal pins in his body. He has a metal plate in his skull. There are metal wires in his jaw and in most of his major joints."
"He must set off a lot of airport alarms," Alex muttered.”
― Anthony Horowitz, Skeleton Key

“Anything to declare? the customs inspector said."Two pound of uncut heroin and a manual of pornographic art," Mark answered, looking about for Kity. All Americans are comedians, the inspector thought, as he passed Parker through. A government tourist hostess approached him."Are you Mr. Mark Parker?""Guilty.”
― Leon Uris, Exodus

“Air travel reminds us who we are. It’s the means by which we recognize ourselves as modern. The process removes us from the world and sets us apart from each other. We wander in the ambient noise, checking one more time for the flight coupon, the boarding pass, the visa. The process convinces us that at any moment we may have to submit to the force that is implied in all this, the unknown authority behind it, behind the categories, the languages we don’t understand. This vast terminal has been erected to examine souls.”
― Don DeLillo, The Names

“Finding a taxi, she felt like a child pressing her nose to the window of a candy store as she watched the changing vista pass by while the twilight descended and the capital became bathed in a translucent misty lavender glow. Entering the city from that airport was truly unique. Charles de Gaulle, built nineteen miles north of the bustling metropolis, ensured that the final point of destination was veiled from the eyes of the traveller as they descended. No doubt, the officials scrupulously planned the airport’s location to prevent the incessant air traffic and roaring engines from visibly or audibly polluting the ambience of their beloved capital, and apparently, they succeeded. If one flew over during the summer months, the visitor would be visibly presented with beautifully managed quilt-like fields of alternating gold and green appearing as though they were tilled and clipped with the mathematical precision of a slide rule. The countryside was dotted with quaint villages and towns that were obviously under meticulous planning control. When the aircraft began to descend, this prevailing sense of exactitude and order made the visitor long for an aerial view of the capital city and its famous wonders, hoping they could see as many landmarks as they could before they touched ground, as was the usual case with other major international airports, but from this point of entry, one was denied a glimpse of the city below. Green fields, villages, more fields, the ground grew closer and closer, a runway appeared, a slight bump or two was felt as the craft landed, and they were surrounded by the steel and glass buildings of the airport. Slightly disappointed with this mysterious game of hide-and-seek, the voyager must continue on and collect their baggage, consoled by the reflection that they will see the metropolis as they make their way into town. For those travelling by road, the concrete motorway with its blue road signs, the underpasses and the typical traffic-logged hubbub of industrial areas were the first landmarks to greet the eye, without a doubt, it was a disheartening first impression. Then, the real introduction began. Quietly, and almost imperceptibly, the modern confusion of steel and asphalt was effaced little by little as the exquisite timelessness of Parisian heritage architecture was gradually unveiled. Popping up like mushrooms were cream sandstone edifices filigreed with curled, swirling carvings, gently sloping mansard roofs, elegant ironwork lanterns and wood doors that charmed the eye, until finally, the traveller was completely submerged in the glory of the Second Empire ala Baron Haussmann’s master plan of city design, the iconic grand mansions, tree-lined boulevards and avenues, the quaint gardens, the majestic churches with their towers and spires, the shops and cafés with their colourful awnings, all crowded and nestled together like jewels encrusted on a gold setting.”
― E.A. Bucchianeri, Brushstrokes of a Gadfly

“After a moment or two a man in brown crimplene looked in at us, did not at all like the look of us and asked us if we were transit passengers. We said we were. He shook his head with infinite weariness and told us that if we were transit passengers then we were supposed to be in the other of the two rooms. We were obviously very crazy and stupid not to have realized this. He stayed there slumped against the door jamb, raising his eyebrows pointedly at us until we eventually gathered our gear together and dragged it off down the
corridor to the other room. He watched us go past him shaking his head in wonder and sorrow at the stupid futility of the human condition in general and ours in particular, and then closed the door behind us.

The second room was identical to the first. Identical in all respects other than one, which was that it had a hatchway let into one wall. A large vacant-looking girl was leaning through it with her elbows on the counter and her fists jammed up into her cheekbones. She was watching some flies crawling up the wall, not with any great interest because they were not doing anything unexpected, but at least they were doing something. Behind her was a table stacked with biscuits, chocolate bars, cola, and a pot of coffee, and we headed straight towards this like a pack of stoats.

Just before we reached it, however, we were suddenly headed off by a man in blue crimplene, who asked us what we thought we were doing in there. We explained that we were transit passengers on our way to Zaire, and he looked at us as if we had completely taken leave of our senses.
'Transit passengers? he said. 'It is not allowed for transit passengers to be in here.'
He waved us magnificently away from the snack counter, made us pick up all our gear again, and herded us back through the door and away into the first room where, a minute later, the man in the brown crimplene found us again.

He looked at us. Slow incomprehension engulfed him, followed by sadness, anger, deep frustration and a sense that the world had been created specifically to cause him vexation. He leaned back against the wall, frowned, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
'You are in the wrong room,' he said simply. `You are transit passengers. Please go to the other room.'

There is a wonderful calm that comes over you in such situations, particularly when there is a refreshment kiosk involved. We nodded, picked up our gear in a Zen-like manner and made our way back down the corridor to the second room. Here the man in blue crimplene accosted us once more but we patiently explained to him that he could fuck off.”
― Douglas Adams, Last Chance to See

“At the departure gate, a drunken airport security woman was handing out box cutters to the passengers.”
― Warren Ellis, Crooked Little Vein

“I wanted to write an adventure story, not, it's true, I really did. I shall have failed, that's all. Adventures bore me. I have no idea how to talk about countries, how to make people wish they had been there. I am not a good travelling salesman. Countries? Where are they , whatever became of them.
When I was twelve I dreamed of Hongkong. That tedious, commonplace little provincial town! Shops sprouting from every nook and cranny! The Chinese junks pictured on the lids of chocolate boxes used to fascinate me. Junks: sort of chopped-off barges, where the housewives do all their cooking and washing on deck. They even have television. As for the Niagara Falls: water, nothing but water! A dam is more interesting; at least one can occasionally see a big crack at its base, and hope for some excitement.
When one travels, one sees nothing but hotels. Squalid rooms, with iron bedsteads, and a picture of some kind hanging on the wall from a rusty nail, a coloured print of London Bridge or the Eiffel Tower.
One also sees trains, lots of trains, and airports that look like restaurants, and restaurants that look like morgues. All the ports in the world are hemmed in by oil slicks and shabby customs buildings. In the streets of the towns, people keep to the sidewalks, cars stop at red lights. If only one occasionally arrived in a country where women are the colour of steel and men wear owls on their heads. But no, they are sensible, they all have black ties, partings to one side, brassières and stiletto heels. In all the restaurants, when one has finished eating one calls over the individual who has been prowling among the tables, and pays him with a promissory note. There are cigarettes everywhere! There are airplanes and automobiles everywhere.”
― J.M.G. Le Clézio, The Book of Flights

“As a kid, I was a loner', I explain, 'and I always figured that when I grew up, I'd leave my hometown and discover other people like me somewhere else. Which I have, you know? But everyone gets lonely sometimes, and whenever that happens, I buy a plane ticket and go to the airport and - I don't know. I don't feel lonely anymore. Because no matter what makes those people different, they're all just trying to get somewhere, waiting to reach someone.”
― Emily Henry, People We Meet on Vacation

“I thought I was going to be assaulted by the police in Denver International Airport (DIA) because of the disgusting way they were treating me!”
― Steven Magee

“I study high altitude effects on humans. Denver International Airport (DIA) is at high altitude and I have personally witnessed behavioral problems in their staff.”
― Steven Magee

“I avoid traveling through Denver International Airport (DIA) due to its high altitude.”
― Steven Magee

“Approximately half the airport passengers in the TSA gate area have no airline tickets because their airplanes have landed and their tickets have expired. Do you see the police officers harassing them out of the gate area because they are no longer ticketed passengers?”
― Steven Magee

“During a request for police records regarding a police harassment incident, I discovered the police had not obtained the airport security camera video footage of the incident that was referenced in the police report. By the time I tried to obtain it, it had been destroyed!”
― Steven Magee

“I will not fly an airline again that cancels my airline ticket at the airport gate for a silly reason.”
― Steven Magee

“In almost five decades of flying, my airline ticket has been canceled at the airport gate only once and it was a shady budget airline that did it for a silly reason.”
― Steven Magee

“It is virtually impossible to get a refund from a budget airline!”
― Steven Magee

“You are most likely to get bumped from a flight on a budget airline. It may take them days or weeks to reschedule you on a replacement flight, due to their low volume of generally oversold flights on your route.”
― Steven Magee

“It is cheaper for an airline to bump passengers off an oversold airplane than it is to sell the correct number of seats for it.”
― Steven Magee

“She cast a dazed and sad eye over the many things the airport offered to her as she left. Surely, she couldn't depart England without a bottle of whisky, a set of china teacups, a Paddington Bear, a biography of some grim-looking sportsdude, an overpriced purse, a shawl, several bottles of perfume ...
"Did people come to the airport just to set their money on fire?
"There were more practical offerings as well. Every other shop offered candy, water, luggage tags, and toothbrushes. Stuff you might have forgotten or need on the way.”
― Maureen Johnson, Nine Liars

“The airport was crowded as usual. Families were bidding their loved ones alvida, and professionals were engrossed in last-minute conversations on their mobile phones before boarding their flights with carry-ons.”
― Ekamjit Ghuman, Train to Mumbai

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“The same rumour continued: Patroni made love the same way he did everything else – with a long, thin cigar stuck jauntily in the side of his mouth. This was untrue, at least nowadays. Marie, having coped with several pillow fires during their early years in marriage- drawing on her training as a TWA air hostess to extinguish them – had emphatically forbidden any more cigars in bed.”
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“Mikhailova anticipates they might detain me after I have passed through the turnstile, that is, after formally crossing the border. I would then be taken away quickly. So she will go through first, then I, then Yulia. these are important issues we need to discuss if we are to be prepared for every eventuality, but I do not actually believe I will face any threats on the day of arrival.

I have long ago given up trying to analyze and predict the behavior of Putin and the Kremlin. There is just too much irrationality in it. Putin has been in power for more than twenty years, and like that of any other leader in history who has stuck around that long, his head is filled with messianic obsessions, all that "No Putin, No Russia" stuff, openly proclaimed from the rostrum of the State Duma. The real balance of power between the sundry groups in the Kremlin is also unknown, no matter what the political analysts choose to write. So it is futile to try calculating what "they" might do next, and we have to do what we think is right.

We have, however, a general understanding of how the media and public opinion function. More or less all we know about Putin's technique for ruling is that he conducts endless opinion polls and takes account of the results in his planning. Arresting me at the airport would not be in his interests. Of all the scenarios for isolating me, this is the one most favorable for me. In the first place, the European Court has already ruled on the Yves Rocher case, recognizing that I am innocent. I make that point during our discussion: "Are you trying to tell me they will arrest me on a charge that has already been ruled against by the European Court of Human Rights? You must be joking."

Arresting me for "failing to observe the conditions of a suspended sentence" would be too cynical, even by the standards of the Kremlin. First they try to poison me, and then, when I am in a coma and in intensive care, they announce, "Oh, look, he has failed to register with the police. Let's imprison him on that county." If they try it, they will immediately lose the battle for the first bastion of public opinion, the journalists who follow closely how the situation is developing.

My period of probation in a case they brought in 2014 ended, after numerous extensions, on December 30, 2020, eighteen days ago. So it is no longer possible to revoke my suspended sentence. Obviously, no such trifling matter as the law will ever deter a Russian judge, for whom the only thing that matters is the telephone call in which his boss gives him his orders. But why make everything difficult, why attract attention, and, most important, why whip up sympathy for me with blatantly illegal harassment?

At his most recent press conference Putin referred to me dismissively with a phrase that had clearly been though through and characterizes his latest tactic: "Who cares about him?" So would it not make the best sense to operate within that framework and ignore my return? Reduce a big deal to a puff of smoke? Instead of providing journalists with the anticipated great shots of me being arrested, let them have a video of me coming out of the airport with my luggage, unsure what to do with myself while waiting for a taxi? Then, after a couple of weeks, when the fuss is over, call me in for questioning on the latest fabricated criminal charge. A couple of months after that, impose house arrest. Three months or so after that, move me to a prison with a short sentence, then renew it. Then just keep me there. Everyone will have gotten used to it by then. Why would anyone protest when I'd been in prison for ages? No, Putin is nuts, but he's not going to be crazy enough to create a major incident by arresting me at the airport.”
― Alexei Navalny, Patriot: A Memoir

“Suddenly, from behind the frosted glass of an adjacent room, a colleague appears. He's senior in rank, a captain. The captain holds out his hand for the passport and then starts brusquely looking through it. Yulia gives me a wry smile, as if to say, here we go. "Alexei Anatolievich, please come with me," the captain says. The expression on our lawyer's face reflects what she is thinking about the failure of our cunning plan. She is standing literally centimeters away, but already on the far side of the barrier that symbolizes the state border. She tries to open it and come back in, but it is obviously locked and can only be opened by pressing a button in the border guard's cubicle.

"Why do you want me to go with you?" I ask.
"We need to establish certain details."
"Well, what's the problem with establishing them here?"
"You need to come with me."

Do you take me for a complete fool? I think. If you've decided to arrest me, bring out your cops, of whom you doubtless have a squad at the ready. They want to avoid a photograph of the police taking me away.

"I don't have to go anywhere with you," I say. "Here is my lawyer. I insist you establish your details or whatever it is in her presence." We bicker some more, and I can see the pain in the captain's eyes. He is under instructions to get me to walk through that adjacent door-with no photos of policemen-but he is clearly not going to be able to deliver. He mutters something into his handset, and six policemen magically appear. Olga begins attacking the barrier even more energetically, demanding to be let back in. Just in case, I move Yulia, who is standing between me and the police, behind my back. Heaven knows what they may have in mind.

The altercation continues, now with a police major, and by now I am on autopilot. This routine of "Come with me," "No," "Come," "No, I don't have to. Here is my lawyer," "No, come with me" is something I know so well I could repeat it in my sleep. What is important right now is to think strategically. I have a single-use mobile phone in my pocket (I feel it). Kira has the backpack with the laptop. I give the suitcase to Yulia; it is unlikely she will be detained too. That seems to be everything. I am ready. I say goodbye to Yulia, kissing her on the cheek.

The standard dialogue has already reached the stage of "If you refuse to comply with the instructions of police officers, forcible action will be taken." There is no point in refusing to go with them and be dragged off by the arms and legs like at protest rallies. What if all they are planning to do is hand me a summons to appear in court? In fifteen minutes the whole confrontation would look pretty silly. I kiss Yulia again and go on my way, accompanied by an escort of police.”
― Alexei Navalny, Patriot: A Memoir

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