Alone at the TWA Hotel.

My grandma Shirley used to be a flight attendant for TWA, so naturally I ordered a Shirley temple when I checked into the TWA Hotel for a night. I sat slurping at the bar, thinking about Shirley and JFK and the strange TWA ambiance surrounding me.

The TWA Hotel extends outward from JFK’s terminal 5, home to Aer Lingus, Cape Air and JetBlue, an unlikely yet elite trio, and is reached via an extensive red carpeted tunnel. The curvy maze of a hotel is an array of red and white, exudes tons of light, and has an old school, dare I say, vintage, airport terminal ambiance- as it was designed to mimic the iconic and historic TWA Flight Center that was once there and Shirley herself once traversed. There is even an exhibit of flight attendant uniforms over the decades sprawling across a balcony, as if the ghost of the women in uniform are watching over the drinkers at the bar below ready to refill their flimsy plastic wine glasses. I looked up at the bleak gray 50s uniform, the one Shirley had worn, and giggled at the thought of an awkward picture my grandpa had taken of me at 15 trying it on. My disproportional adolescent body was squeezed into the long pencil skirt and fitted blazer, hugging me in all the wrong places. Shirley, on the other hand, looked beautiful and elegant in it during her TWA days. My grandpa certainly seemed to think so when they first met, him in his window seat, her strolling the beverage cart down the aisle. I’m sure he ordered red wine and gave her a flirty grin, it wouldn’t be dissimilar to what the 97 year old man saunters around doing now- perhaps it’s all in honor of Shirley. On that day, sometime in 1952, Ron waited for Shirley at the gate in Pittsburgh, upon landing early due to bad weather (they were supposed to land at JFK), and took her right to dinner. Shirley and Ron were engaged three weeks after they met on the plane. They had 6 boys and were married for over 60 years, until Shirley passed in 2020. 

I met my boyfriend about 6 months ago at the airport, not in Pittsburgh or JFK, not terminal 5, nothing to do with TWA, but nonetheless, there were planes and gates and aisles and flight attendants. Do I want 6 boys and 60 years of marriage? probably not, but my grandparents (and perhaps the media too) have always romanticized flying. I seemed to have inherited their mindset of giving flying an absurdly idealized, yet feasibly magical aura of possibilities. Now it seems so obvious, like of course the airport is where I would finally have met someone. 

Admittedly, I think back on my own airport story at least once a week and sitting at the TWA Hotel bar staring at the flight time solari board click away and sucking on toxic, flashy red cherries, that would linger in my stomach forever (allegedly), was an ideal time to reminisce. I wondered if the solari board were actually depicting real upcoming departures and arrivals…if so, there was a flight headed to Reykjavik within the hour. 

Romance in Reykjavik!

Three months prior to my TWA visit, I booked a flight to Iceland alone without a plan. I needed to find a new context, to remind myself that there are other contexts (vague, but relatable?). Being able to get that perspective is crucial, and yes, it doesn’t need to be as extreme as fleeing the country, but the flights were cheap. 

I was flying out of SWF airport, a one gate sort of operation, with seemingly flights only to and from Iceland via “Play Air.” That alone felt like stepping into another realm. Anything was possible under the whimsical watch of Play Air. I looked around and felt instant comradery, I even went far enough to leave my bags at my seat while I used the restroom. There was an element of kindness and trust in the air. Everyone was chatting, and everyone was chatting about Iceland because everyone there was going to Iceland. That commonality was enough for me. After spending an hour speaking to an old lady from Japan and a young guy from Ireland, I had a whole list of things to do in Iceland…Northern Lights tours, whale cruises, glacier hikes... I noticed that, unlike me, everyone had a secure itinerary for their trip. 

When our flight got delayed, because the plane had not arrived in from Iceland yet, I decided to go for a glass of wine. The first thing I noticed in the Hudson news/fast food joint/airport bar all-in-one was the rings of a man sitting at one of the tables. It was not unusual for me to notice style before a face. This man wore a nicely over-sized white t-shirt, loose linen black pants, a silver watch, and lots of silver rings. The rings captivated my attention fully, sending me into a spiraling trance in which I was so zoned in, I forgot to greet the bartender when my turn to order rolled around. His rings were metallic and chunky, but tasteful and somehow delicate despite their hearty girth, or perhaps it was the position of the hand itself, resting gently atop the shoulder of another man, that made the rings appear a bit softer. The ring bearer must have caught my examination of his left hand, because I felt him starring at my eyes for quite some time, watching them look him up, down, and sideways. Our eye contact was brief- I got embarrassed he caught me and looked away. He sat with two other men, but their hands were barren and their aura less inspiring of my attention. I finally ordered my wine and turned to look at the man once again just before walking back to the gate, this time he was looking me up and down.

Fifteen minutes later the three men appeared, sitting themselves down directly across from me despite the disproportionate number of open seats to bodies around us. For another fifteen minutes I awkwardly made contact with all three of them in silence. Then, I did a classic move. I made a phone call and chatted with my friend, knowing (hoping) they would listen. I rambled and I giggled, then, immediately upon hanging up, I spoke to them. It was a seamless and smooth way of operating. I casually asked, “when is this flight boarding? It’s so late.” And then the barrier has been crossed. Maybe they sat there to talk to me, maybe not (they later admitted that they did indeed sit there on purpose.)        

We talked incessantly for a few hours there at the gate. As I listened and spoke, I took notes and made my calculations, all with the hopes of reaching the solution of are these men trustworthy? 

Here are the crucial facts that led to my trust in them:

They giggled a lot. 

They had sisters. 

They had earnest eye contact. 

They were my age. 

They each had expressive style with no collective coordination. 

One had a film camera around his neck. 

Another one had wide books in his backpack. 

The one with the rings kept blushing. 

They had a detailed, color coded Iceland itinerary. Each one had planned a different day. 

I agreed to go to the Blue Lagoon with them the next morning when our flight got in. I had a growing fascination with the ring bearer. He was the quietest of the group, and the “unsaid” in our repetitive eye contact was building. We boarded the plane and took off from SWF airport to Iceland on Play air. 

When we arrived, they were there waiting for me at the exit, holding up their end of the bargain despite my anxiety that five hours in the air could have changed everything. As I was walking out to their rental car, I heard someone call out to me. I turned to see a woman I had spoken with on the bus to the airport the day prior. It’s important to note she had made a phone call on that bus to complain to a bus station restaurant that they forgot whipped cream on her to-go brownie. She also had passed on that complaint to me when she started chatting me up. 

“Ahh you are the girl they met at the airport.” She remarked in a full pant, gesturing for me to come have a word with her.   

“Oh hi” I said, “How are you?”

She barreled into me, ignoring all formalities, and eager to speak her piece. “Those boys are raunchy, I don’t know if you want to go with them. I was sitting behind them and they were loud and have bad intentions with you.” She continued in a loud whisper. 

“What did they say exactly? Or what’s the worst thing they said?” I asked bluntly. 

This woman was ancient, frail and practically keeling over. I was touched by her rush to rescue me, because it clearly was putting her out, but I was also cautious to trust her unsettling energy. I typically don’t trust people who complain to restaurants.

She sighed heavily and leaned in so that we were practically nose to nose. In an aggressive hush she said, “they said they want to tap that a**.” 

“Ahh, I see. Thanks for letting me know. I really do appreciate it.” I said far too seriously. 

She nodded and walked away. I didn’t have time to laugh, I had one minute to make a decision on my controversial next move. Is this a major red flag? If yes, what do I do now? I did want to see the Blue Lagoon…

While I didn’t love being objectified, it’s not like I hadn’t done the same. It’s not like I probably wouldn’t have talked about the tapping of their a**es (may have worded it differently) if my friends had been there. I was not going to be naive and act like I didn’t already have those thoughts, I justified. Additionally, it was too early to leave the ring bearer…I figured that the Blue Lagoon was a 10 min drive and I could always bolt from there. It was public and crowded and I’d have an easy escape. 

I crawled into their back seat seconds after the bus lady wobbled off, and we headed out on the one major road out of Keflavik, Iceland. There was no turning back. I was tucked in tightly to a minuscule fiat with the three strange boys who wanted to tap my a**. 

They giggled a lot. 

They had sisters. 

They had earnest eye contact. 

They were my age…

But at the lagoon, everything just got better. I was so comfortable with them, I even told them what the bus lady said. They promised they were all talk and actually quite respectful men. I became part of their trip from them on. My connection with the ring bearer occurred quickly, due to a few Icelandic shots and a scooter shortage, which forced us to ride together through the frigid air, clinging to one another for warmth and swerving about to avoid traffic. I hate to use the word easy because it’s far too, dare I say, easy a word choice, but there’s no other way to describe our connection and how rapidly it grew. At first it was just a fun flirtation with someone handsome, who had nice taste in jewelry, but by the end of the trip, it was clear that this could be the beginning of something more. Those kinds of easy connections don’t come everyday, even if it feels like a fluke because you met at the airport.  I have seen him every week since our trip to Iceland. Perhaps my grandparents’ story carries a bit more class to it, but in this day and age to say you met your boyfriend at the airport, not on hinge or at a crowded bar downtown, feels special. So special I let myself re-count, re-romanticize, and maybe slightly re-write the story at least once a week.

I Love the Airport<3

Let’s get back to airports…back to JFK and TWA.

Airports seem to cure me of any lack of inspiration. The scene of it all, the excitement of what’s to come, it gives me a new lease on life, a new context to explore, internally and externally.

Ever since Iceland, I have only romanticized them more for obvious reasons. It may sound cringey (not a great way to start a sentence), but I am truly like a protagonist in a 2000s movie with Nathasha Bedingfield playing in the background when I walk through the airport. On my way out of terminal 5, en route to the TWA Hotel, I stopped at numerous gates and examined the scenes of people to see who was going where. I even got in line (like a fool) at a few gates and pretended I too was headed to Nairobi or the Bahamas. Being in a mob of people, but also completely alone and invisible while everyone is in such motion, is where I find a sort of equilibrium. I can let my imagination run and be completely inside my own head dancing about to various destinations or I can sit blankly and observe. I can just stare at the rapidly changing screens of destinations and extremely entertaining lines forming at the gates. I get to see those dressed on theme for their vacation, all decked out to land in Lisbon, or see those racing home in ragged sweatshirts plastered with the titles of their latest trip- I’m convinced to see JFK is to see it all, and the sight is always climaxing in orderly mayhem and excitement. It’s almost like sitting in the middle of New York itself and people watching, but better, because there are far more clusters of weirder, more polarizing people….The city is a hub of all kinds of people, but you can’t pretend it’s not still completely stratified by neighborhood….the Lower East Side girlies aren't in Times Square and the Midwestern tourists aren’t in the Lower East Side….but here they stand together at the gate headed to the same European countries for very different vacations. 

I stopped into the TWA Hotel so I could think about Shirley and myself, but also so I could reflect on JFK- so I could take an extra moment for JFK. I wasn’t ready to go home, to re enter the uncomfortably unpredictable chaos that exists outside of the perfectly consistently chaotic JFK. There are two directions to move in, arrivals or departures..how comforting. JFK is my home-base, but it’s also an adventure. It borderlines known and unknown. It’s a starting point and an ending point.

So, next time you’re dreading a travel day, go grab a Shirley temple at the TWA Hotel, make it a Dirty Shirley if you have to. Take a moment and try to romanticize and maybe even enjoy the airport. You can always reset at the airport. 

You can always witness love and maybe even find it.