When airports were fun

I was thinking, as we were going through security at Love Field, Dallas, that airports used to be fun places. Now they just seem to be places to get through, means to ends, be they business or pleasure.

At Love Field, the security lines partially cover a wonderful floor piece, a tile map of the world, polar projection, if memory serves. I remember that as a little girl my sister and I would walk all over this map and imagine faraway places. Were we at Love for a flight? No, we were there for fun.

Growing up, Sundays meant church, lunch out more often than not, and then a trip into Dallas. Sometimes we'd go to a movie or visit the zoo (for us), sometimes go through model homes (for Mother) or new car lots (for Daddy), or go to Love Field.

At that time, there was a huge stuffed giraffe in the center of the lobby. One could take the escalator up to the observation deck and watch the planes come in and out. On sunny days, I remember walking out on the roof deck and watching them from there. I'm sure there were gates, but people would go onto the tarmac to board. (We did this the last time in Hobart, Tasmania, three years ago. I had thought the practice long gone and was so glad it was not.)

There was a Polynesian restaurant on the deck level and I can close my eyes and see it and smell it. Of course, one mustn't forget the bathrooms and the dimes needed to use all the ladies stalls but the one free one. People would leave the pay-stalls and hold the door open for the next person.

It was fun. Our airport was fun. Then things changed, and they're not going back, but it's good to have the memories.