Incase anyone missed it....It sounds great, can't wait to see it on the 13th, I am planning on getting there early just to walk around.
Terminal velocity
By Brian McGrory, Globe Columnist | March 29, 2005
All right, who stole my airport?
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That's what I keep wondering as I settle into the bar at the sparkling Jasper White's Summer Shack and a drop-dead gorgeous bartender, after inquiring of my flight schedule, purrs, ''Oh, you have plenty of time."
Suddenly it feels like I have all the time in the world.
Behind the bar, oysters from Plum Island; Mill Cove, Maine; and La St. Simon, Nova Scotia, wherever that is, chill on crushed iced. Handsome bottles of upscale vodka line backlit shelves. Plasma televisions hang overhead.
All this at the new Terminal A at Logan, yes, our very own Logan International Airport, home of the constant parking crisis, the bleak waiting lounges that double as chronic construction sites, and the overpriced restaurants with surly service crammed along narrow walkways.
I'll confess that I love a good airport, what with the people to see and the places to be. There's something unfailingly cheerful about the sunlit waiting lounges at Charlotte International, the new age shopping mall at Pittsburgh, the dramatic architecture of Reagan National. I love airports so much that I used to frequent the old cocktail lounge high in the Logan control tower, even on nights when I didn't have a flight.
Conversely, a bad airport makes a disastrous first impression. Who can take the city of Memphis seriously, given that Memphis International Airport seemed to model itself after a public school boys room? Atlanta's Hartsfield International is a nightmare, requiring bus and tram rides just to board the plane. Chicago's O'Hare may be big, but Norwood Airport has more personality.
Logan's never been much better, and probably a little worse, a combination of rinky-dink and honky-tonk, with its mishmash of free-standing terminals, the slowest baggage service in the nation, and legendary traffic problems that greet travelers into town.
Why mince words: The place was an unapologetic pit. Welcome to Boston, ladies and gentlemen, the city that doesn't work.
Things began changing a few years ago, first with the Ted Williams Tunnel, then US Airways' renovation of Terminal B, the Interstate 90 extension, and the rehabbed Terminal E.
And now this, the new signature. Walking into Terminal A, passengers are met by air and space. It's expansive, clean, and borders on the dramatic, everything, in short, that Logan wasn't.
And everything that too much of Boston isn't, especially given the white elephant across the harbor known as the Big Dig. Delta seemed to rebuild this terminal overnight at a cost of $400 million, entirely with private dollars, no fuss, no muss, no leaks and falling tiles.
And here I am, browsing Borders, saying hello to the staff at Lucky's, admiring the full-size Dunkin' Donuts. When I descend the deep escalator and ride the moving underground walkway beneath the playfully [purposely] tilted ceilings to the satellite terminal, it feels as if I'm in a future century. I swear I saw George Jetson walk by.
Once there, I order the $10 rock crab cakes and a $10 fried clam appetizer at Summer Shack. They arrive within minutes. The aforementioned bartender refills my Coke without asking. I'm starting to think this would be a good place to bring a date. If I were the paper's restaurant critic, I'd give it four stars.
Afterward, I anxiously eye the clock. I want to grab a draught at the Harpoon Brewpub, then catch some basketball on the plasmas at Game On. I wouldn't mind listening to the headsets in the Bose store, or stopping by Landau, if I could figure out what it is they sell.
I need a flight delay to accommodate it all. If they announced a cancellation, I swear half the people would stand up and cheer. After I board the plane and look out the window at the gleaming new terminal, I vow to return, and next time I'll make it on a day when I don't have anyplace I need to be.
Brian McGrory is a Globe columnist. He can be reached at
mcgrory@globe.com.
