The Weird Duality Of The Modern Airport

The modern airport, where Orwellian biosecurity meets Huxleyian indulgence.

I’m old enough to remember what traveling was like before 9/11. I remember traveling home to England for Christmas and being asked to remove my shoes for the first time. Gradually and not consciously, I began to travel less and the reason for it wasn’t just that my financial situation deteriorated, it was the very thought of putting myself through the grueling security apparatus formulated within the modern airport.

French philosopher Mark Auge has developed a concept that he calls “non-places” to describe the spaces created by Globalization which are not meant to be dwelt in but passed through. The airport, the train station, the waiting room, or the bus. These spaces are devoid of identity, personal attachment, and sense of place. They are non-places, the same the world over. Because the non-place exists as a conduit rather than a place to be dwelt in, its function is to operate and process, to guide and sign-post, nudge, and direct.

The subject within the non-place is disincentivized from thinking or acting independently of the process of which they are now a part. They will sit where directed, walk where instructed, and acquiesce to what the functioning of the system requires. The speed of the flow of human bodies is also out of the subject’s control, and the potential for causing a disruption in the process via a malfunctioning ticket or gate garners a low-level panic in the subject who wishes to pass through the non-place on autopilot.

Having surrendered their individuality and agency to a technical process of efficiency, the newly globalized mass face further dehumanization and humiliation upon arriving at the airport security gate. Here, privacy will be jettisoned as the traveler submits to removing their shoes and belt, publicly emptying their pockets of private items and standing vulnerable and at the mercy of the airport staff who, knowing they’re dealing with somebody who is entirely powerless, treats the traveler with the contempt the weak and powerless always receive. They are looking at your socks, which would usually be seen only by those in your personal life.

The impetus, of course, is to “get it over with” and not halt the flow, to keep up with the human traffic - to not stand out.

I’d forgotten the various rules and left my laptop inside my rucksack hand baggage. I was summarily taken to one side and asked to remove the laptop from the rucksack, which I then did in public, revealing the spare boxer shorts and t-shirt I used as padding to a large area full of strangers. My coping mechanism during this ordeal was to tell myself it didn’t matter, the staff see this every day, all day. In other words, I wasn’t special, I was just part of a biomass over which they govern. The separation from my electronic devices as they ran them through the line in a tray made me nervous - within them was my life and all my personal details - but here too I realized I was at fault. I didn’t matter.

I had made my peace with the airport minions. I wasn’t a man. I was part of a process. When the airport staff instructed me to step into the scanner booth where a small, fat Asian man would look at my testicles and colon, I hardly even noticed. It wasn’t a big deal, it didn’t matter, they see this all the time.

They allowed me to proceed to the tray where my personal belongings, shoes, and belt sat waiting. Now comes the dilemma, is it more important to conceal my devices in order to keep the line flowing? Or should I instead put on my shoes, leaving devices exposed? In a pitiful act of rebellion, I pulled on my shoes first, reasoning to myself that a man should, first and foremost, be ready for action.

The humiliation ritual had reached its fulfillment, I had passed through the submission and enfeeblement, I had born the degradation of my manhood and individuality with the craven compliance demanded, and I was now at liberty to turn the corner and see... paradise!

The make-do blue carpet, upon which a million shoeless feet had trod, now gave way to a jet-black marble-style flooring that gleamed. The air filled with boutique fragrances as I stepped further into the dazzling brilliance of ten thousand twinkling lights which reflected on the marble floor. The Duty-Free section of the airport was once synonymous with cheap booze and cigs, but at some point it was decided that this lucrative non-space deserved something less plebeian and more fitting of a node in the network of Globalized commerce and material worship.

Gucci, Armani, Yves Saint Laurent, and Chanel beg for my attention. Suave men dressed in Barbour jackets look wistfully into the horizon in giant ads, as bottles of Talisker whiskey seem to whisper in my ear from glass cases.

The psychological impact is to clear away the foul taste left by the meat grinder of the biosecurity zone and instead garner within you the airs and graces of the high-status jet-setter. The Orwellian had made way for the Huxleyian. In place of the negation of the self, there was its affirmation. By virtue of simply being present, and having access to such sumptuous luxury items, you were a discerning and high-agency individual. I’m not immune; I stared deeply and longingly at the bottle of Laphroaig set to the backdrop of a stag standing proud on a misty Scottish mountain. Elsewhere, women would be drawn to the handbags, others to the perfumes and checked flat caps.

The luxury boutique items and brands on display in the Duty-Free zone are corporate globalism’s way of waving its tail feathers like a peacock. This is the answer to the question ‘‘why?’’ The fulfillment of Globalism’s promise of a borderless world, where each subject is liberated from prior identities and can now reformulate themselves around consumerism. Here, though, to make the point, the very best in consumerism is deployed.

Above the twinkling lights and mirrored marble, rafters and iron girders can be seen peeping through. There’s a hollowness to it all. In the end, it’s another non-place, despite its best efforts.

I plod toward the departure lounge, ruminating on whether the extravagance justifies a fat little Asian man seeing my nipples, and emasculating me, and come to the conclusion that, no, no it isn’t.