It's 12:15 in the morning, and I'm sitting outside on a concrete bench in Burbank, California.
That's 12:15 a.m. Pacific time. Keeping up with local time has become more or less irrelevant during this trip. I started off on Central time, but the combination of rarely spending more than two days in any one region and the erratic schedule of airports has left me living in my own time zone.
Circadian rhythm? Nah. Five hours on an airport bench, one waiting at the gate for a flight, two more on the plane.
Trying to repeat my night in San Jose, where I made the best out of an unfriendly pre-security area by camping behind a counter, I wandered over to the car-rental section and set up shop behind the Avis desk. I had just about drifted off to sleep when I felt somebody prodding me with a foot. I opened my eyes to see two airport police officers hovering over me. The first, a woman, was burning holes through me with her eyes. Her partner stood a few feet behind, observing with a bemused expression.
"What do you think you're doing?" she asked.
I suppose it was a question that she had to ask as an introduction to whatever conversation was about to follow, but it struck me as funny. A few different responses ran through my mind: Listening for local seismic activity. Measuring the length of carpet fibers. Double-checking the janitorial staff's work.
None seemed wise, so I simply answered, "Sleeping." After a short pause, I added, "Or at least I was."
Her partner was amused, but she was not.
"Sleeping?" she asked. "You know that in an airport you can't just wander wherever you want."
It wasn't so much a question as a statement, and while there probably are people out there who don't understand the basic concepts behind airport security, it seemed clear to everyone involved that I did.
"Why are you sleeping here?" she demanded.
Because my chiropractor said it was good for my back. Because I really enjoy a midsize rental sedan and want to get the first one.
I've never had any sort of defiant streak towards law, but for some reason, sarcasm was all that came to mind. Chalk it up to fatigue. Finally I went with a more acceptable story, telling her I was a stranded traveler.
She quizzed me about when I'd be leaving and how I got there, and then asked for my identification.
"You're not a serial killer down in Texas or anything, are you?" asked her partner. Not that I knew of.
As she waited on a response from the dispatcher running my driver's license, her eyes traveled over my bags laid out on the floor. They stopped on the Wired ID badge I made before leaving in order to better facilitate interviews. (Oh, uh, Wired, did I mention that? No? My bad).
"Wait a minute," she said. "Are you that guy?"
I already knew where this was going, but I played along. "Which guy?" How did these people know about what I was doing?
"The one traveling around airports for a month, sleeping in them, writing about it and all."
I replied that I was. She turned to her partner, her demeanor changing. "This was the guy they mentioned in the memo. They said he might be coming by, to keep an eye out for him."
Apparently recognition as a journalist, however loosely I qualify as one, can do wonders when you run into problems with airport law enforcement. She tossed my license back to me. "Look, you can stay somewhere else here, just not behind the counter, okay?"
By this point I had packed up my belongings, and we got up together and wandered back toward the baggage carousel. The two of them made suggestions along the way.
"You could get on the baggage claim and ride it around all night."
"Maybe try pulling out that bench, or sleeping underneath it."
"It's pretty quiet in the hallway down there."
It was, and I sat down in one of the ubiquitous black and chrome chairs to consider my options. The two of them disappeared in different directions.
A minute later, the woman returned. "Hey, next time, just give us a heads-up, okay? Here, brought you this, if you'd like it." It was a bottle of water and, appropriately enough, a doughnut. "And there may be somewhere even better outside by the baggage claim, a bench. No armrests to worry about."
I went to check it out, which is where I am now, doughnut and water bottle next to me. I don't have problems sleeping outside, and the weather is perfect for it, but I still have the feeling that I won't get a lot of rest tonight. No big deal. I fly to Houston via JFK next, which adds up to something like nine hours of flying, one of my longest days. Plenty of time to catch up.
For now, I think I'll pull out my pillow and see what this bench has to offer. She was right; this is the only place in the airport without armrests.
Turns out that the police know a few things about airport sleeping after all.
*
Follow Terminal Man’s travels on Twitter @Flyered and check out his itinerary on Google Maps. You can also track his flights to New York and Houston through FlightAware. And check out his previous posts here.*
Photos: 1) Terminal Man spent the night on this bench. 2) The original bed, behind the Avis counter.
Brendan Ross/Wired.com
