Suspended 20,000 feet in the air, I watched the skyline enter from the starboard side of the Boeing 757. Perhaps it was the physical proximity to God himself, but I couldn’t help a feeling of excitement. As far as airports go, Chicago’s O’Hare is distinguished. The contrast between terminal five of O’Hare and the entirety of Newark’s Liberty airport eases the pressure of a good impression, yet standalone Chicago’s own goes above and beyond. The energy here is electric and evident, first in the staff.
Midwestern culture promotes a certain kindness your average New Yorker might consider undeserved. Today, that unusual kindness can be mistaken for some sort of ulterior motive or angle. The reality here in the great state of Illinois is that there is none. These are people who crack jokes and make small talk because it’s better than not. They are simply genuine folk with contagious attitudes. I caught the good vibes early on and saw them leak into my day. I watched a pair of K9 officers tossing a ball to their hounds. And while I was sure that someone in the terminal wouldn’t be making it home with their secret stash of contraband, the moment was valuable.Fixated on typing, I then left my phone on the bus to Avis Car Rental. In a New York transit situation, the device would have swapped hands for $25 without any remorse for its owner. The driver could have left, but he tracked me and saved my trip. These instances, among others, provided me with the concrete evidence to rule O’Hare’s culture pleasant.
Airports, no matter how big or small, have their physical distinctions as well. In Chicago, her name is Sue and she is a dinosaur. She is a Tyrannosaurus Rex fossil, the result of a commercial expedition in Faith, South Dakota circa 1990. I get excited again, but now know this new feeling cannot be God. My mother recalls my childhood fascination with dinosaurs, “You used to just love dinosaurs, Brian. When you were five, you just loved them.”
I stop and look up, pausing to study Sue’s features.
“Still do,” I conclude.
Finally, it’s the customer service. Before Odyssey, Starbucks struck me solely as an opportunity to see a misspelled version of my name. Walking past the checked baggage turnstiles, I realized my luggage was not ready. A Starbucks kiosk presented itself. Normally, my mind would naturally glaze over it. But not this time. I write for Odyssey now, and therefore allowed the purchase of an ice coffee. “May I sweeten this? Milk? Cream?” Phenomenal. “All three please,” I responded.
I told the woman my name and waited no longer than a minute before hearing it. I reached for the drink and caught "Brian" spelled to a tee. Stimulated by both spell check and caffeine, I double checked my work to that point. Unfortunately, my time at O'Hare could not last. With the rental car ready and my article lacking only a conclusion, I bid farewell. Reminding myself I would be back in a week, my head lifted and calm, I left the compound and went on to the City.
