Iconic Airports: Where Are They Now?

Yesterday, I went out to JFK Airport with no flight to catch and no visitors to greet. It was the annual Open House New York event, where private buildings and homes all over the city open to the public for a few hours, and it was a last chance to see the iconic TWA Flight Center before it is turned into a hotel. (You can see our photos from last year here.)

Native New Yorkers, retired flight attendants, tourists and architecture enthusiasts flooded the airy terminal, closed since TWA ceased operations in 2001, taking photos and sharing stories about the good old days of air travel. The mid-20th century was the high point in airport design; its airy and futuristic buildings can be appreciated by any modern day traveler who has ever had a layover at La Guardia.

We looked at some of the most iconic airport architecture in the U.S. and their current status. Is your favorite still flying?

%Slideshow-100872%DCA Terminal A – Washington D.C.’s first airport opened in 1941, and was considered to be the most modern in airport design at the time. In addition to its status as historic landmark and aviation icon, it’s also an archaeological site: the airport was built on a former colonial plantation and the birthplace of George Washington’s granddaughter.

Status: The original terminal was restored to its original look in 2004 and 2008, with the interior currently undergoing a massive renovation. You can still see many parts of the original lobby and building as it looked when President Roosevelt dedicated it. Check out some vintage postcards of the airport from the Boston Public Library.

IAD Main Terminal – One of Swedish architect Eero Saarinen’s airport designs, Dulles was designed in 1958 and dedicated in 1962, the same year the TWA terminal opened. The architect called the building and control tower “the best thing that I have done,” and inspired the design of Taiwan’s international airport. The “mobile lounges” were one of the most innovative concepts, carrying passengers in relative luxury from the terminal right to the plane

Status: Dulles wasn’t a popular airport from the beginning, as it didn’t allow jumbo jets until 1970 and the distance from the city is still off-putting, but it’s now one of the busiest in the country and is continuing to expand. The mobile lounges are still around, but the new Aero Train is more commonly used.

JFK Pan Am Worldport – The 1960 “flying saucer” was designed to bring the airplane to the passenger, sheltering the planes under the overhang for all-weather boarding. It was opened for Pan Am and renamed the Worldport in 1971 when it was expanded to accommodate the Boeing 747, and was the biggest passenger terminal in the world for several years. After Pan Am went bankrupt in the ’90s, Delta acquired the terminal and used it for many long-haul flights.

Status: Although it is on the list of the most endangered historic buildings and beloved by many airline and architecture enthusiasts, it looks like the Worldport is permanently grounded. While Delta just completed a major renovation of their other terminal at JFK, they need the room for airplane parking, and the flying saucer is already beginning to be demolished.

LAX Theme building – The distinctive Theme building is a perfect example of 1960s futuristic architecture, resembling something out of the Jetsons and actually inspiring the cartoon’s design. Part of the original ambitious plans for the airport was to connect terminal buildings with a giant glass dome, with the Theme Building serving as the main terminal, as in the picture above. One of the most famous buildings in the world, it’s photographed more than the Eiffel Tower.

Status: The Theme building has been a restaurant since 1997, and you can visit Encounter for a meal even if you aren’t flying. The free observation deck is open on weekends only if you just want to watch the planes taking off.

LGA Marine Air Terminal – For a passenger who arrives at one of La Guardia’s many dim and low-ceilinged gates, it’s hard to imagine that an Art Deco beauty is part of the same airport. Opened in 1940 and funded by the post-depression Works Progress Administration, the Marine Air Terminal originally served the glamorous Clipper planes, carrying 72 passengers on long transoceanic flights with sleeping berths and a high-end restaurant. The second World War made such flying boats obsolete, and the terminal sat unused for several decades.

Status: It’s now the main hub for Delta’s shuttle service to Boston, Chicago and Washington, even after a massive renovation to Delta’s other terminal at LGA. While it might have less modern facilities, it’s the only terminal to feature an original mural dedicated to flight (with a secret message).

LGB Main Terminal – The first trans-continental flight landed at Long Beach in 1911, but the Streamline Moderne terminal wasn’t built for another 30 years. The modernist building was considered avant garde at the time, but now feels classic and a bit romantic among airports, the kind of place you can imagine passengers boarding with hat boxes and cat eye sunglasses. Much smaller than nearby LAX, JetBlue made it a west coast hub in 2001 and put the California airport back on the map.

Status: Last year, LGB was fully modernized to make it more green and “resort-like,” with outdoor spaces outfitted with fire pits and cabanas. The renovation uncovered more of the mosaic tile art by WPA artist Grace Clements, then 28 years old, and covered by carpet for 70 years.

Tour Paris By Zeppelin

Looking for a way to avoid the tourist crowds in Paris? You might try looking up. Airship Paris is a new company offering tours of the French countryside around Paris by zeppelin.

Tickets range from 250 euro for a half-hour “first flight” tour of the castles around Vexin (including the Villette Castle from “The Da Vinci Code” movie), to 650 euro for a royal tour of Versailles with Paris in the background. Flights take off from the Pontoise airport about 25 miles from Paris. The 250-foot-long airship carries up to 12 passengers and cruises at an altitude equivalent to the Eiffel Tower.

After takeoff, you are free to take in the views from the panoramic windows, sitting or standing. Unlike a hot-air balloon or blimp, the zeppelin is wind-resistant and heavier than air, with a low level of vibration and noise (the company compares it to that of a dishwasher). Airship Paris is the first commercial airship service in the area in 30 years.

Read more and book tickets here.

Video Of The Day: The World’s Most Contagious Prank

Today’s Video of the Day takes us to several famous locations around the world, where prankster Roman Atwood demonstrates the power of the yawn. Outside of landmarks like the Eiffel Tower, Mount Rushmore and Stonehenge, Atwood walks by tourists while stretching and yawning, causing them to do the same. Let’s just hope he took the time to actually enjoy all the places in the background of these clips and didn’t just sleepily pass through.

[via Break.com]

City Of Light

“Would you push five for me?” asks the woman. “I’m having trouble with my hands today.”

I poke the black button next to the cutout number and my knees plié at the jerk of the taut cables. I stare at the numbered panel of the elevator, waiting for the digits to light and extinguish, but eventually my eyes shift to the woman next to me.

I notice her crutches right away. They’re not the type you buy at the drugstore after a twisted ankle then toss into the attic after a weekend of use. These have no padded ledges beneath her armpits on which to rest. Instead there are two rigid, four-inch cuffs, each locked on the long black sleeves covering her slight arms. Her hands, I presume, normally clench the foam grips that protrude from the metal sticks and hit her at the hips. Now, however, they fumble with the zipper of a brown saddle-shaped purse slung across her chest. Ignoring her is an option; avoiding her is impossible.

Not much bigger than a wine barrel, the elevator we’re squeezed into is one of those cage-style carriages embellished on three sides with delicate gold swirls and flourishes, and an industrial crisscross gate for a door that collapses and expands in graceless clacks. The space is barely big enough for one, romantic for a couple, but for two sets of unfamiliar eyes, awkward. The elevator ascends sluggishly, as if being hand-heaved by two men in the basement. It would have been faster to take the stairs the six flights up to my room, which I did yesterday.

“Can I help you with that?” I ask, nodding toward the woman’s purse.

“Yes, thank you,” she says.

I reach over and slide the zipper open.

She interlaces her fingers and caresses the length of each, then says again, “I’m having so much trouble with my hands.”

Her statement is an inverted invitation, the equivalent of “I had the best meal last night” – only I get the feeling her answer won’t lead me to a new bistro in the seventh arrondisement. I stare at my feet, the carpet, the rubber tips of her crutches. Out of the corner of my eye I see the number two button light up.

Asking the question was no problem in high school, when my friend Cyndi appeared on crutches one morning in a cast that stretched from her ankle to upper thigh. By the time the afternoon dismissal bell rang, her white plaster canvas had been transformed into a purple-penned, heart-dotted “I” masterpiece. Cyndi made swinging like a pendulum on one foot appear flirtatious, and for the next six weeks girls carried her books, and football players carried her crutches – and her – up the stairs to her second-floor classroom. I laughed until my cheeks hurt when she dropped a pencil between the cast and her skin while trying to scratch an itch, and when she was finally cast-free, Cyndi ceremoniously chucked her crutches, and the rogue pencil, into the school dumpster to the cheers of about a dozen classmates. To this day, I don’t remember the answer to the question of how she actually broke her leg; all I know is that Cyndi grew more popular because of her defect. She had somehow made it seem cool to be impaired, and at the time, I too desired that kind of attention, even if it meant splintering a limb to get it.

But for this woman the crutches aren’t about popularity. Nor are they temporary scaffolding to protect the underlying anatomy while it heals. They’re permanent buttresses that prop her erect and tether her feet to steady ground.

Truth be told, I’ve never stood this close to a disabled person. Even with our backs against the farthest edges of the elevator, we are close enough to touch. I’m ignorantly uneasy, as if the crutches will infect me with the malady if I look her in the eye. Pity and curiosity swirl in my head, along with the crass assumption that nothing I say will make a difference. I don’t like the word disabled, but don’t know if handicapped is politically correct. Saying nothing doesn’t feel right either, but is it okay to ask her what’s wrong with her hands, or is it wrong to use the word wrong?

“So, what’s going on there?” I ask, adding a quick jerk of my chin.

“I’ve been diagnosed with A.L.S.,” she says.

I’m surprised by her candor. I’ve heard of A.L.S. but don’t know enough to respond, so I just shake my head.

“Lou Gehrig’s disease?” she prompts.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s okay,” she says. “I guess I’ve been talking about it for so long I expect everyone to know.”

With academic succinctness she explains that A.L.S. is the acronym for Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis, a neuromuscular disease that attacks and degrades muscles and motor skills, like those in her hands and legs, until they atrophy and die.

The word “die” is the one I’m afraid of, and it lingers in the air next to the hum of the elevator motor that has now lifted us past the fourth floor. A lump clogs my throat. I grapple with what to say next.

“How long ago were you diagnosed?” I ask.

“Nine months,” she says.

Nine months. The time it takes to grow a life, I think; the time it took me to grow my daughter.

“And you’ve had a second opinion?” I murmur.

She gives a half laugh. “A second. A third. A fourth.”

A weighty silence caws between us.

“Is this your first trip to Paris?” I finally ask.

She nods.


I think about the first time I saw Paris, nearly 20 years ago. It was covered in snow. Along the cement banks of the steely river; on the branches of squat, leafless trees; in the curves and crevices of filigreed balconies; and on the stone wings of angels, winter had dressed Paris in gray and white. It was nothing like the poster tacked to my wall at home depicting pink sunset swirls on the Seine. Nor was it like the movies I saw in French class with canoodling lovers clinking wine glasses beneath the Eiffel Tower while a nearby accordion played Edith Piaf’s “La Vie En Rose.”

For the first few days, I wandered the numbered neighborhoods and checked off the clichés. I traced the steps of former denizens and imagined them waltzing in taffeta gowns with gents who plucked gold coins from velvet pouches. I loitered in cafés where legendary writers once scribbled novels as cigarette smoke circled their heads. But the unexpected boon of being alone in the city of lights was the self-scrutiny and liberation that anonymity brought. In a place rife with foreign tongues, where no one knew who I was, I could be whatever I wanted. From the grand boulevards that shot across the city like arrows aimed at distant compass points, to the couples who strolled the avenues arm-in-arm and kissed openly on park benches, to the performers who rendered hopeful opuses in the windowless underbelly, Paris was my patron of endless possibility.


“I remember my first visit,” I say, smiling.

“I’ve always dreamed of coming here,” she says. “And I wanted to see it before I couldn’t.”

Tears sting and well in my eyes. For the first time in the few minutes we’ve been together, I really look at her. Under the halo of a small overhead light, and with the golden elevator trimming the backdrop, she looks posed like a portrait in a gilded frame. She’s older than me by about ten years, 50-ish. Her black hair parts in the middle and ripples against cheekbones that chisel sharp edges below her brown eyes, and shade the hollows of her cheeks. Her skin gathers like a cinched sack at the outline of her rose-tinted lips, which hint at both a smile and something else I can’t quite decipher. Perhaps it’s sadness, or acceptance, or surrender.

Instinctively, I introduce myself and stretch out my right hand. She squeezes it harder than I expect and says her name is Leigh.

A cellphone rings from inside her purse. She maneuvers around the bag’s small opening and I offer to help, this time without pondering proper etiquette. I flip the phone open and place it against her open palm. It’s her mother; she has accompanied Leigh on the trip and is waiting in their room.

“She’s always so worried about me now,” Leigh tells me when she hangs up. “I just wanted to be by myself for a while.”

I nod. As a mother, I empathize with the fear of losing a child, whether to the fever of a foreign city or to a fated malady. As a daughter, I understand the desire to find yourself by veering off a path that was planned for you and following the one that is meant for you.


I’d chosen to take my first trip to Paris for reasons spawned by idealistic books and a poster of the Eiffel Tower pinned to the closet door of my childhood bedroom. But my journey was also about breaking off a path I could have easily followed. For years I’d listened to my mother dream aloud of going to Hawaii, Maine, Greece, other far-flung places. When the foggy June mornings arrived in southern California each year, she’d tell me it was her favorite time to be at the beach. But she never went. Not to Hawaii, or Maine, or Greece, or to the beach that was 20 miles from our house. Her dreams were checked behind pretexts of time, money and fear. “Maybe someday,” was her response whenever I asked why she didn’t just take the easy drive to the shore.

The shrug of her shoulders told me “someday” would never become today. As a kid, I was disappointed that we never took these grand trips. But as a young adult, disappointment turned to determination; I found the idea of wishing one’s life instead of living it sad, and without a moment’s hesitation, I seized my first opportunity to go abroad.

A decade later, when I became a mother, I vowed to myself that I would encourage all reasonable whims. And thanks to Ludwig Bemelmans’ Parisian-themed Madeline books, it didn’t take long to fulfill the promise; my daughter Chloé, who read each Madeline book until the pages creased, asked me to someday show her the Eiffel Tower. When she turned 6 I took her to Paris, and as we rounded a corner and crossed the Pont d’Alma, the celebrated landmark came into view. It was night and the lights quivered like a million fireflies. She gasped. I could see the curiosity and wonder in her eyes as she tried to reconcile the cartoonish sketches from her bedtime stories with the shimmering, larger-than-life monument she’d wanted to see.

“It’s so big!” she said.

I hoped that somehow I had made her world a little bigger, too – and that I’d planted a seed of wanderlust. But mostly, in the flickering light, I wanted Chloé to recognize a wish fulfilled and see her mother as the devoted granter.


When Leigh and I finally reach the fifth floor, the gate bangs open and I hold it while she shuffles toward her mother, whose smiling face and halo of white hair beckon her into outstretched arms. I step out behind her and let the elevator gate slam shut behind me.

Though I’ve spent only a few minutes and five floors with Leigh, the intimate details she’s shared make me feel more like a trusted friend than an outsider, and I ask them if they’d like to have dinner one night. They say no; they only have a few nights left, and they’d prefer it be just the two of them. I say goodbye and watch as Leigh’s mother places a steady hand on the small of her back and cups the other over the rigid cuff clamped on her daughter’s arm.

“I can do it, Mom,” Leigh says, shuffling forward.

But her mom doesn’t waver, instead pulling her daughter a little closer. Leigh lets her.

This mother’s strength overwhelms me. It’s something I both revere and hope never to have to summon. Watching them, I understand the only way they can conceivably bear their grief is by doing it together.

Before she enters her room, Leigh turns back toward me.

“What’s your favorite place in Paris?”

I’d just spent the morning revisiting the familiar cobblestone streets that had awakened me years ago. Paris is my favorite place in Paris.

But Leigh’s searching eyes tell me that’s not the answer she’s looking for.

I suggest Notre Dame Cathedral – admired for its hovering demons and flying buttresses. “There’s a bronze star in front, set in the cobblestones,” I say. “It’s from there that all road distances in France are measured. The star is point zero, the starting point.”

As I say the words aloud to Leigh they sound cruel barely off my tongue. I’d stood there first as an expectant young adult, and then decades later had returned to place my daughter’s feet on the same spot. Paris had been my genesis, and I’d hoped Chloé’s too – the beginning of a life unlimited by time and fate.

The door of Leigh’s room shuts, and I climb the final steps up to the sixth floor. Outside my window I see the peaks of ancient rooftops pierced by attic rooms, where lights flick on and off and occupants ebb and flow. And I see the crown of Notre Dame, below which I picture Leigh’s mother placing her daughter’s feet on a star, fulfilling a child’s wish at the starting point of a different kind of road.

[Photo Credits: Kimberley Lovato]

Tourist Attractions Around The World: Fact vs. Fiction

The wonders of the modern world define our travels. Whether we admit it or not, there’s something heroic about standing on top of the Great Wall of China or hiking up to the crest above Machu Pichu for the trademark photograph. It’s those photos that fuel our travels and that convince our friends and families to make the same trips. It’s also those photos that define our perceptions of a destination and, in a way, cloud them.

What’s missing in most destination photos, though, is context. The Taj Mahal is a celebration of architecture and beauty in northern India, but the surrounding neighborhoods have developed an economy that is known for taking advantage of tourists. The Mona Lisa, shown above, is often buried by eager tourists.

To illustrate this contrast we put together a series of destination images before and after – as we see them on postcards and then in real life. At worst, the photos show how crowded and hectic some of the world’s destinations can sometimes be. But we prefer to think of them in a different light: they’re the destinations in real life, complete with tourist, busker and hawker. In a way, it’s a more complete story.

Next: The Eiffel Tower in Paris, France >>

[flickr image via thms.nl]