There’s something offensive about an early morning alarm clock. On a normal day i would hit snooze five time and make a promise to myself I won’t hit it for a sixth. But on the day I’m headed to the airport? Hell, I wake up before the alarm.
The flight doesn’t leave until 10, I’m only 45 minutes away. But I’m up before the first crack of light and out the door in no time flat.
Some people call that dumb, others think I’m trying to avoid the rush. Both are wrong, because both have never understood the excitement of an airport beer.
A man doesn’t just arrive three hours early because he’s worried about long lines. He arrives three hours early because there’s a beer beyond security, a stool with his name on it and a bartender who’s about to learn where he’s headed and he’d hate to keep them waiting.
For there is something special about an airport beer. It’s the only beer you can drink at seven in the morning without someone asking if you’re doing okay.
It’s the beer that doesn’t count. Not against your diet, not against your wallet, and certainly not against your judgment.
At the same time, of all the beers you’ll drink, it’s the one that counts the most.
For an airport beer with friends and family is a celebration of what is before you. A toast to stories that are about to be made, and memories you’ll spend years telling and every time they are told, they will start at the airport.
On the flip side, an airport beer alone? Well, that’s not really drinking alone. Because you’re never really alone at the airport are you? It’s filled with friends we just call strangers who we have not met yet, on their way to their own destination and adventure.
There’s a son headed to bury his father, and a father headed to meet his son. A woman celebrating her divorce, and a newlywed couple headed off on their honeymoon. A family is traveling to Rome, and another is heading to a connecting flight home.
There’s a businessman on his third beer, a traveler headed to who knows where on her first, and between them all is the bartender who’s heard more confessions than the Pope.
The beauty is nobody knows anybody. Nobody cares what you do for a living. And everybody agrees that seven forty-five in the morning is a perfectly reasonable time for a second round.
There’s a strange fellowship among travelers. Some are leaving everything behind. Others are returning to everything they love. One is telling you their favorite places they just went to, the other is saying what they hope to see. And all of them, for a moment, are going nowhere.
Just sitting. Just waiting. Just drinking an overly priced yet perfectly perfect airport beer.
Now, the beer before the trip? That’s a special kind of magic. It tastes like freedom. Like possibility. Like a weekend full of stories that might be better left untold.
You’re raising a glass to the places you haven’t seen, the memories you haven’t made, and the money you’re about to spend that you won’t think about until your are on your way home.
Speaking of your return home, well, that’s a different beer isn’t it? Same brand. Same glass. Same taste, still overly priced. But a different beer entirely.
If the first sip before the trip tastes like freedom. The last sip on the way home tastes like Monday morning. I can’t quite explain how the same beer can taste so different, but if you’ve ever had both, you know exactly what I mean.
Because the first beer says, Here we go. And the last beer says, Do we have to? The first is full of anticipation. The last is full of dread. Not because the trip was bad. Quite the opposite.
Because somewhere beyond that boarding gate are credit card statements you must face, emails that need answering, and responsibilities that had the audacity to continue existing while you were gone.
There’s laundry waiting. Animals to be fed. Weeds to be pulled. Work that you put off the week before you trip that must be faced. a bank account that would appreciate an explanation of what just happened. And Tomorrow morning, somebody’s going to expect you to be a functioning adult.
But not yet.
Not while you’ve passed security, got a boarding pass, a barstool, and twenty minutes before they call your group.
So you sit. And you sip. And strangers become friends. And you watch the planes come and go.
And maybe that’s what makes an airport beer so special. It doesn’t care where you’re going or where you’ve been. Whether you’re celebrating what’s ahead or mourning what’s behind.
It’s just a little stretch of time between the life you’re leaving and the life you’re returning to. A place where nobody needs you, nothing’s expected of you, and the only decision you’ve got to make is whether you’ve got time for one more.
And friends, you’ve always got time for one more.
So here’s to the early flights, the late departures, the friends we travel with, and the strangers we drink beside.
Here’s to the beer that doesn’t count, but somehow counts the most. The beer that welcomes us into adventure and gently leads us back into reality.
Because sometimes the best part of going somewhere is the moment your butt is panted on a barstool.
And sometimes life’s greatest 16oz pleasures are found at an overpriced bar somewhere between Gates D2 and C4.
Where there are No rules, no clocks, no judgment. Just a boarding pass and a grin.
And brother, that’s what I call L-I-V-I-N.
Cheers. To Airport Beers.
