I recently went on an adventure to another state by airplane. Taking side paths down rabbit holes of gates, hallways longer than are good for them, and “people movers” that can make you forget how to walk properly. There dwells the illustrious and highly trafficked treasure trove of titles known as the airport bookstore.

They all have different names.

Different layouts.

I think even different people work in them.

But they all seem to have the same look and feel. As in the airport bookstore is niche. A brand. A trademark to travelers that can be depended on.

Like an old friend.

Walk my dark wood particle board shelves, they call out with their faux reading nooks and curved bookends, covered with front facing paperbacks, colorfully leaning forward like flowers toward the sun, reaching their rainbow colored covers to the passers by in romance roses, mystery mums, fantastic sprays in baby’s breath and forget-me-nots. Come and find solace from boredom, escape from the dreary whirl of a hundred individual fans and the crinkle of cellophane individual satchels of mini-grahams.

No, you can no longer count on peanuts. Nothing is sacred.

But I am. I can save you.

Here are places you can leap from wing, escape the tiny windowed, beige tube, the chafing of the seat belt. The smells of your intimate seat companion, stranger smooshed to stranger.

Can I turn my head just a little bit, have the air current breeze by just a little this way or that to miss entry into my nostrils? Can I?

Can I have my carryon bag filled with my most precious traveling items that I don’t want to leave my grasp, be ever left unattended, be always close like a loved stuffed animal clutched for protection? Everything is OK. Can that precious container of treasure be safe from spilled drinks of those before or behind me?

Oh, plane seat gods – may I lift my bag from between my feet once we have finally landed and I creak my cramped joints into oiled movement in a half crouch stand as I wait for my turn to escape in a flurry of awkward shuffling and luggage flinging? When I lift my bag from its vulnerable place upon the plane floor, may it not be soggy with the sweet floral foam of a secretly spilled tsunami that had stuffy hours to soak and ruin precious said contents?

Please no.

(Oh wait, that did happen.)

(*sigh*)

But yes.

The dependable and always present airplane bookstore.

So variedly the same.

So fakely creative.

A seller of escape hatches.

Just as I am looking for exit signs.

It can’t be used as a flotation device, but if you have your tray-table in the upright and locked position you can dive into an ocean of pages just as the you hit cruising altitude.

Thank you, Airport Bookstores.

I am always glad to see you.

And you have always been there in my traveling time of book needs.

Sincerely,

Steph

P.S. The flight attendant asked everyone to raise their hand if they were hot. It was pit-staining, embarrassed to raise my arm up hot. Then she said, “OK, now who is average looking but has a great personality.” Thank you, flight attendant. That joke carried me all the way home and it still makes me randomly chuckle.