Why Is It So Cold in the N Gates?
For a long time, I rolled my eyes at a layover. Seattle Tacoma International Airport became the bane of my existence. Yeah, yeah, it goes without saying that I’m privileged to even be able to travel — and by air, even more so — but it also goes without saying that I’m not SUPER privileged if every time I travel, it means a stop in the Pacific Northwest’s biggest hub.
Only up until recently did SeaTac, as it is so dubbed, move up from its dead last place in my heart. And that was primarily because Qdoba in the main terminal is open for ALMOST 24 hours, making it the ideal place to spend a layover that burns into the redeye hours — or, you know, the ideal place to eat food that will subject you to hot airplane dumps later on in your journey.
For me, the love/hate relationship with SeaTac began over twenty years ago. As an Alaskan, I had no other choice. You’re either flying, or you’re not going anywhere and forget that taking the ferry nonsense. I was a newborn; I didn’t have time for ferries. And because I was flying, it meant a layover in Seattle, as it usually does. While I have no recollection of this first trip, I do, however, have recollection of an incident that would happen in SeaTac a mere three years later that would forever stain the ugly carpeting of that airport as tainted.
I’m one of five kids. Alaska is cold, okay? And we’re Catholic. Figure it out in your head. My parents moved to the north from their home in the Midwest and because my grandparents NEVER visited us, my parents packed up their brood, an Australian Shepherd, more than one booster seat, and shuffled us onto Boeing 737s where flight attendants would serve breakfast that would end up directly in the seats and all over the floor, on a cross country trek to visit grandma. This must have been torture and the only thing that would make it Guantanamo Bay worthy was a layover in Seattle, which was inevitable. My oldest brother, a mischievous 13-year-old (read: asshole) decided to take my other brother, 6 at the time, to find the now gone Burger King somewhere at the C gates of SeaTac. They told no one of their plan. My mom, frantic as hell, with a toddler and a baby, sent my dad, angry as hell, to find them with only minutes left before our plane took off to Minnesota. It is one of my earliest memories because it was traumatic. I decided SeaTac was my personal hell then and there — and because there is apparently no heating in the N gates, it’s safe to say that it would be the ninth circle for Dante, too.
I cannot count how many times I’ve had to stop in the Emerald City’s airport, but I can recount the bizarre times. The time when a man would not stop following me around and calling me Kendall Jenner. Another time when I had a seven-hour layover and rode the tram for five hours, shifting my feet in my shoes, pretending I was surfing. Another time when it seemed like the entirety of the gates were under construction and I started crying because I was exhausted, trying to lull myself to sleep with the sounds of drills whirring into concrete. And god, all those Seahawks jerseys.
I can also recount the good times. Coming home from a stint in Australia, I knew SeaTac was the closest I would be to home. It is always the last leg of a journey back to my roots, a reminder — albeit annoying — that I am almost there. When I was a freshman in college, nursing homesickness, I pined for the floors of that germ-ridden airport, a place I knew well. And when my former boyfriend lived in Portland, Seattle meant I was almost to him. Herein lies my love.
I no longer roll my eyes at a layover. Because I’m there so frequently, SeaTac has become an extension of home in a way — a place where you’re comfortable but damn, the people can be annoying. From my time there, I have learned the layout and know all the secrets. I can tell you where you can peacefully take a post-flight poop or where there is a singular outlet to charge your phone and avoid humanity. While there is some love in my heart, layovers are frustrating and this airport sucks. But thank God for Qdoba, and can we please get some heat in the N gates?
