Airports are incovenient for addicts.
Regardless of how short any smokers layover is, there is only one thing on their mind when wheels hit the tarmac. Where can I smoke?
Fuck the baggage, I'll find the carousel later. The kids can ask any number of strangers for directions to the toilet. There could be a mandatory cavity search performed by Andre the giant, and smokers would still be running through the terminal faster than Macualey Culkin.
Except in Denver.
As I returned from Manzanillo, Mexico, on Boxing Day, 2007, I discovered that Denver International was The Last Mohican of indoor airport smoking.
I was exhausted. I killed an epic fourteen hour, Christmas Day layover at LAX, and was still one flight away from home. I only had an hour before departure. I searched for the baggage claim sign, directing me to the nearest exit. Then I remembered how vast the airport was.
When passing through with my family years before, I had been amazed at the immensity of Denver International. It was the only airport my brothers and I had seen the enormous treadmills that carry weary, ancient, and obese travellers to their departure gates. The gauntlet of treadmills seemed to go on forever.
I consulted a television map of the airport. I was several terminals away from baggage and would not make my connecting flight. I was furious. Then, like a beacon from the heavens of vice, I saw Airways Lounge on the second floor. In letters as big as the name of the establishment, it said 'Smoking Permitted.' I think I nearly wept.
The location of Airways was left imprinted on my brain. I exited the plane, hurried through the pedway at a desperate pace, and broke for ten minutes of stinky reprieve. I remembered from my last visit there was a one drink minimum to be eligible for Airways benefits. I had zero dollars that time. The waitress allowed me to stay anyway. I must have looked that bad. I plan to tip well this time in atonement for that wrinkled, and smoke weathered angel.
I think I aged ten visual years walking through the vacuum sealed entrance. The smoke was thick and overwhelming. It didn't matter, I sit at the table nearest the bar and pull out an American twenty dollar bill.
I look at my fellow addicted travellers. Many are eating hot dogs. A sign informs me it's the Airways deal. A pint (sixteen ounces), a hotdog, and a bag of potato chips for ten dollars. The Japanese man at the table next to me is inhaling two of these deals. The waitress approaches, emptying ashtrays along the way.
"Jameson and ginger please."
"Make it a double for a dollar more."
I can't tell if it's a statement or a question. My trip has yet to truly begin. The days of fretting my dire financial state are ages away. I'm buying magazines before my flights to take my mind of flying. Various nuts and candy serve as excellent distractions. I'd be foolish not to get a double.
"Yes. Absolutely Yes."
She returns a moment later, collecting half-full ashtrays that were empty two minutes before.
"That'll be 9.50 for the drink"
Goddamn! I pay the woman and request eight dollars back. I think about the racket Airways has going for it. I read somewhere that 12% of adults are smokers. If that number is accurate, Airways has a deatclutch on a substantial and desperate demographic everyday. Denver is one of the biggest connecting hubs in North America (alongside Minneapolis and Chicago.) If for example, 100,000 people fly through daily, Airways has 12,000 people salivating to suckle from her nicotine stained teet.
I happily pay for the drink. It pleases me to see Airways participates in the American pasttime of freepouring. My tiny rocks glass is three quarters whiskey, the other a mix of ice and Canada Dry. I finish the drink in three moderate sips.
"You want another drink?"
I will be in Guatemala in less than twenty four hours, where ten dollars will buy me five drinks in bar. I should be saving my money.
"I would love another."
"Make it a double for a dollar more?"
"Yes. Absolutely yes."
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