In which Melanie finds herself in Cincinnati
Cincinnati. An airport designed by a four-year-old.
I arrived late in the afternoon. The pilot had advised the passengers that 27 mph winds would present a problem, although he quickly clarified that the said "problem" would involve those leaving the airport. Didn't fool any of us. Probably not as bad as the landing in Portland ME last winter, in a snowstorm with 20mph crosswinds, but likely number two. I don't recall ever feeling the plane skootch sideways during the approach. Not a good feeling. Imagine the anticipation with which I view the flight out of here.
I know that this airport was designed by a pre-schooler, because the designers could neither say their alphabet (the main concourse is "B"), nor could they assemble the airport in a cohesive manner. A map shows that the concourses are scattered across the property in no particularly logical formation - it looks like Evan placed the buildings on his train table. In addition, the concourse in which I sit seems to have adopted the self-service fast food, or the Model T assembly-line model. Obvious designed for modern efficiency, the result is confusion.
The gates are virtually inaccessible. Instead all passengers congregate in a very large common room. Facing the passengers are ten "boarding doors", each labeled with a letter of the alphabet. After following the sign, which directed passengers to gates with numbers like C-47, "E", "F", "G", and "H" just don't seem to scan. After passing through door “G”, passenger then walk down the hallway (which would be the length of the concourse in most airports), and then exits the building to board the plane from the tarmac.
This part isn’t too odd – most of my assignments require travel on small regional jets. This certainly wasn’t the smallest – the award for the smallest would have to go to the De Havilland Dash 8 turboprop that I took from Buffalo to Pittsburg (seating just 18 passengers) last winter. I decided that I really didn’t like turboprops very much after that flight. However, seating in tonight’s jet was just 44, which is quite small enough, thanks. Too bad I missed the Outback in concourse B – I could have really used a Wallaby Darned to gird my resolve for the next flight.
I arrived late in the afternoon. The pilot had advised the passengers that 27 mph winds would present a problem, although he quickly clarified that the said "problem" would involve those leaving the airport. Didn't fool any of us. Probably not as bad as the landing in Portland ME last winter, in a snowstorm with 20mph crosswinds, but likely number two. I don't recall ever feeling the plane skootch sideways during the approach. Not a good feeling. Imagine the anticipation with which I view the flight out of here.
I know that this airport was designed by a pre-schooler, because the designers could neither say their alphabet (the main concourse is "B"), nor could they assemble the airport in a cohesive manner. A map shows that the concourses are scattered across the property in no particularly logical formation - it looks like Evan placed the buildings on his train table. In addition, the concourse in which I sit seems to have adopted the self-service fast food, or the Model T assembly-line model. Obvious designed for modern efficiency, the result is confusion.
The gates are virtually inaccessible. Instead all passengers congregate in a very large common room. Facing the passengers are ten "boarding doors", each labeled with a letter of the alphabet. After following the sign, which directed passengers to gates with numbers like C-47, "E", "F", "G", and "H" just don't seem to scan. After passing through door “G”, passenger then walk down the hallway (which would be the length of the concourse in most airports), and then exits the building to board the plane from the tarmac.
This part isn’t too odd – most of my assignments require travel on small regional jets. This certainly wasn’t the smallest – the award for the smallest would have to go to the De Havilland Dash 8 turboprop that I took from Buffalo to Pittsburg (seating just 18 passengers) last winter. I decided that I really didn’t like turboprops very much after that flight. However, seating in tonight’s jet was just 44, which is quite small enough, thanks. Too bad I missed the Outback in concourse B – I could have really used a Wallaby Darned to gird my resolve for the next flight.
posted by Melanie Unruh-Bays at
6:58 PM
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