Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. General opinion’s starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don’t see that. It seems to me that love is everywhere. Often it’s not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it’s always there - fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends.
Sentimental films such as Love, Actually would have you believe that the arrivals gate is a place of joyful anticipation and tearful reunion, where families come together in a flurry of hugs and shrieks and lovers reunite in a smooch of kisses and entwined limbs (while standing in the most inconvenient exit-blocking place possible, oblivious to the log-jam of fellow travellers who cannot pass).
This is only part of the story, and not a particularly representative bit, either.
In a world in which public transport is quick and plentiful, it’s increasingly rare to be met by someone you know at the airport. Most people (whether arriving home or somewhere new) make a bee-line for the underground, train, or cab rank. It’s quicker to head in to town yourself in the majority of cases, and traffic mayhem combined with scandalous short-term parking charges deters all but the most determined from making an appearance at the barrier.
But at the arrivals gate in most airport terminals, there are some scattered families, who pace the floor and try to keep younger siblings amused in the sterile environment. There are some lovers, waiting with slack anticipation as they flick through the paper at the coffee shop.
And then there are the others.
The board men. The bored men. The car service drivers.
Who stand waiting in the arrivals hall holding a laminated sheet with an unfamiliar name scrawled on in blue erasable ink.
Who line up against the barrier in their uniform of bluetooth-headset, cheap suit and sensible-but-smart shoes, shifting the weight from aching legs.
Who scan the emerging crowd for clues of identity - travellers tired and crumpled in clothes more appropriate for somewhere several hours and several thousand miles away who scan, in turn, the scribbled signs for their own names.
Who are summoned by a curt nod from someone with a briefcase who will be whisked away, amid polite enquiries about the flight, to a faceless business hotel on the edge of town.
This is your welcoming committee.
I don’t know what that says about the state of the world, these days.
Really enjoyed this post. Nice picture, too - I can hear a high-hat swing counting down the the opening riff.
That is a fantastic photo. If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you posed the subjects: look at their legs! ;)
Don’t forget the great British tradition of slightly forced/embarrassd reunions where no-one wants to show too much emotion in public; hug, peck on the cheek and then straight onto the practicalities.
I can’t imagine ever running and jumping into the arms of a loved one. I’d be too weighed down with luggage - they only get away with dropping luggage in the movies, do it in real life and you’ll be lucky if the airport isn’t evacuated and your undies treated to a controlled explosion!
As someone who flies for work about twice a month, I’m either always hopping into a taxi or getting picked up by car service drivers whenever I arrive at an airport.
Taxi drivers and car service drivers: as close to family as I get these days.
I remember talking to a few friends who went into management consultancy, who spoke of the various cities their work took them to in name only: for most, they never left the airport penumbra, the bizparks and hotels, the International Zone of homogenised spaces.
Still, Arrivals at Heathrow T3 when there’s no-one to meet you can feel like the loneliest place in the world. Especially at US-arrivals-o’clock, the jetlag headfuck six or seven in the morning when there’s nothing open and you can’t even get the re-entry balm of a newspaper or something reassuringly British and fattening.
(This is one reason why I decided some time ago that the smart route involves Schiphol and my parents’ local shed of an airport.)
One other thing about airports in pop culture: the desperate rush to the gate in order to catch up with your beloved or say goodbye was a mainstay of American film and television, but it was always alien to the British experience. (Heathrow T3’s point-of-no-return in Departures is also a fascinating place to watch, a cultural whirl of goodbyes.) That all changed after September 2001.
Have you been looking at my notebook from around 2003? Very well put, nice post.
Having worked in the environs of Heathrow for a couple of years I began to notice these itinerant car service drivers. Around the airport for about two miles there are no places to park that don’t cost ridiculous money. Being private hire drivers (the ones with the fluorescent TFL disc that makes them better drivers) they aren’t allowed to fit into the black cab pool between the perimeter road and the A4, so they slosh around Harmondsworth, Sipson, McDonalds and Feltham trying to find somewhere to stop where they don’t get clamped. They spend so much time waiting, talking on aforementioned bluetooth headsets to each other, occasionally fending off parking restrictions. They are a tribe, adrift in the sequesterd principality of Heathrow.
So by the time they meet your car on the M4 they are in no mood to be considerate drivers.
Slightly odd perspective if you don’t mind me saying (although a good peg to hang a great photo on..). The fact that the majority of travellers don’t have loved ones waiting for them doesn’t detract from the fact that some do - and that it’s often beautiful to behold when they’re reunited.
You say it’s increasingly rare for people to be met by loved ones, but even if that were the case it might only be as a proportion of the total. Since there are so many more flights and travellers these days (and an increasing fraction of them non-business), the number of reunions per hour may be higher for all we know.
Whatever, thank you for reminding me about that opening scene in Love Actually - I can never watch it without being moved. However good the acting may be in a film, you can never top the real thing, and I’m aware enough of my own cynicism to be able to suspend it on occasions. I can even manage to enjoy St. Valentine’s Day!
I’m with Pligget, for me the joy of friends, family, and lovers reunited defines the overall impression. That said I really like your expression “slack anticipation”.
That is a great photo! And it tells me one thing - 2008 is the year to dress black (nothing has changed really).
As for Love, Actually, I admit it, I have seen it a million times and will probably see it a million times more. Love it. Actually.
Luggage Sets…
I found your site on technorati and read a few of your other posts. Keep up the good work. I just added your RSS feed to my Google News Reader. Looking forward to reading more from you….