=20 ---------------------------------------------------------------------- This article was sent to you by someone who found it on SF Gate. The original article can be found on SFGate.com here: http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=3D/chronicle/archive/2002/02= /12/DDCARROLL12SB.DTL ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Tuesday, February 12, 2002 (SF Chronicle) Not leaving on a jet plane STEVE RUBENSTEIN THE AIRPORT, AMERICA'S latest whipping boy, could use a few friends these days. Count me in. No bunch of bad guys is going to take away one of the great joys of the age -- hanging out at the airport. Late in the evening, my 7-year-old daughter and I head down to the new international terminal at SFO and hang around. We don't have to stand in the stupid lines, because we're not going anyplace. People make too big a deal out of departing and arriving. There's something to be said for staying put. At the airport, staying put gives you time for the other stuff. There's the windows. At night, an airport window looks out on the best show in town. The baggage handlers are tossing suitcases, but they're not your suitcases. The planes are arriving late, but they're not your planes. The catering trucks are delivering the in-flight dinners, but they're not your dinners. You don't have to eat them. You're not going anyplace, remember. The runway lights glow cobalt blue against the black of the bay. Cobalt blue is the color of adventure, the color of a Milk of Magnesia bottle without the grief of one. "Let's get a chocolate shake," said Anna, and we got a chocolate shake, which you can't get on a plane, not even in first class. BETWEEN SLURPS, WE checked the monitors, to see where the action was headed. London and Lisbon. Paris and Prague. Shanghai and San Jose. Not the low-budget San Jose, either. Not the San Jose you take Caltrain to. The other San Jose, the one with coconuts and an accent mark. We asked strangers where they were going, and they all smiled and answered, every last one. At an airport there are no strangers, only fellow travelers. "Have a nice flight," Anna said to strangers heading for Beijing, Guadalajara and Inchon. Thank you, they all said, and not all of the thank yous were in English. After the departures, we headed downstairs to welcome the arrivals. It's= a yin-yang deal, like the thing painted on the tails of the Korean planes. The arriving passengers push their baggage carts through the customs hall doors and look around, like deer in headlights. The lucky ones look for loved ones, the others look for their names on the cards held by limo drivers. "Welcome to San Francisco," Anna said to a few dozen people. It was their first moment in San Francisco; you want to get them off to a good start. You want to get to them before the Moonies do. Being the only ones at the airport who were neither early nor late was a grave responsibility. Since we could not pass through the passengers-only checkpoint, we did not have to go to any of the duty-free shops, where a duty- free Hermes scarf costs a duty-free $225. We bought a duty-free Hershey bar at the newsstand instead. It cost twice what it should have, but we were feeling generous, having saved thousands on the plane tickets and the scarf. At the airport, everything is either expensive or free. A shower costs $11, but a visit to the airport museum, where the Graf Zeppelin model is on display ("Way cool," said Anna), is free. Foreign currency costs $5 plus an 18 percent commission, which is the so= rt of thing the money changers got driven out of the temple for. But going up the down escalator is free. WE DID THAT, a couple of times. The coast was clear. The cops are after bigger fish these days, and the security guards have their hands full taking away nail clippers. On the way out, the parking guy wanted $6 for our 90-minute stay. We gladly forked it over. It was a great deal, for here we were, in San Francisco. No jet lag, no lost luggage, no cramped legs. On the way home, we ate the Hershey bar to celebrate our luck. E-mail Steve Rubenstein at srubenstein@sfchronicle.com. Jon Carroll's column returns tomorrow.=20 ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Copyright 2002 SF Chronicle