It was the best of terminals; it was the worst of terminals.

I had to become a savvy traveler to afford trips to California after both of my kids moved there.   Spirit was my airline of choice because they used to have a cheap, non-stop flight from Chicago’s O’Hare Airport to Oakland, which was only 10 minutes from one daughter’s place.

Spirit advertises itself as no-frills, and they ain’t kidding.  Their cheapness isn’t limited to their planes.  I can’t speak for all airports, but at O’Hare, the very terminal they inhabited reflected their corporate culture.   Spirit and American Airlines were both in Terminal 3 then.  Spirit occupied the tail end of concourse L, and American was in concourses H & K.  

I’d flown Spirit out of O’Hare often enough that I was familiar with the terrain.  Half of concourse L was usually under construction.  There was never any evidence that anything was actually being constructed, just orange cones and tarps haphazardly set up to narrow the flood of travelers to an anxious, impatient trickle.  Fluorescent lights buzzed and flickered on and off overhead, and unknown fluids dripped from the ceiling.  Spirit had a couple of gates at the very end of the concourse, as if the airport bigwigs wanted to keep us as far as possible from the full-fare passengers. 

Concourse L smelled faintly of boiled cabbage and despair.

On one trip they changed the gate for my flight at the last minute.  They went from L1 to an infrequently used gate that didn’t even have an electronic sign and wasn’t on the site map.  There wasn’t as much as a chalkboard to show the departure times or gates. Thank goodness I was in the vicinity to hear part of the announcement, although the boarding agent’s accent was so thick and the sound system so scratchy I couldn’t understand more than a few words. I followed throngs of people to an open, unmarked door to one side.  When they finally started boarding, instead of filing down a long, enclosed boarding ramp, we had to schlep our stuff down a dingy flight of damp, concrete steps and out a door clearly intended for the maintenance crew.  Once outside, we walked across the tarmac.  It had, of course, started to rain.  We climbed up a long ramp that had been hastily outfitted with a canopy, treading cautiously around rubber mats covering the power cables attached to the plane.  Typical situation at an airport in a third world country.

On another trip I got to O’Hare with hours to kill and, rather than heading straight to my gate, I thought I’d investigate the rest of the terminal.  I wandered down to concourse H, turned the corner and discovered how the other half lived.  I’d entered airport Shangri La.

The brightly lit hallway featured a soaring, barrel vaulted ceiling festooned with brightly colored flags which, I assume, represented all the nations where American Airlines flew.  It was light, airy, spacious and colorful. A little girl being dragged along by a frazzled woman stopped short in front of me, stared up at the ceiling and breathed, “Mommy, it’s beautiful!”  Indeed.

The mouth of the concourse was occupied by luxury goods stores like Mont Blanc, Brooks Brothers and a place that sold handbags that were so fancy, it looked like they only stocked 5 of these masterpieces in the whole store.  Each was displayed with more reverence than the Mona Lisa.  The saleslady, pencil thin in severe black with flawless makeup and 6-inch heels, looked at me with such ill-concealed contempt when I dared to look in their window, I didn’t even consider crossing the hallowed threshold. These places must really come in handy for the upscale traveler who realizes with dawning horror, “Oh no!  I forgot to pack my $850 wool hacking jacket!”

By comparison, the entrance to concourse L featured a mini cart and cooler selling prepackaged dry, ham and cheese sandwiches for $17, tiny $9 bags of pretzels, and $8 tap water bottled in Gary, Indiana.

Wolfgang Puck had a restaurant in concourse H.  Ronald McDonald had a restaurant in concourse L. 

As I wandered through the enchanted land that was concourse H, I forced myself not to stare, to keep my jaw from dropping.  I tried to blend in with the high-end shops and restaurants, and all the beautiful people.  I wanted them to think I was just another world-weary international traveler, but I feared it was glaringly obvious that I was not of this concourse.

If my sweatpants and tennies weren’t enough to out me, there was my luggage.  Those who’ve flown low-budget airlines know that one way they keep it cheap is by allowing one measly “personal item.” An actual carry-on bag costs more than the ticket price.  My bright blue, scuffed and fuzzy 7 x 11 x 13 rolling bag was clearly designed to fit under the seat in front of me.  I was in a cold sweat that it would brand me as an intruder – fearful that security guards in matching American Airlines Brooks Brothers wool tweed hacking jackets would hustle me back to concourse L before any of their privileged flyers noticed they had been invaded by riffraff.

The stress was too much – I turned and scurried back where I belonged.  It was strangely comforting to navigate the familiar construction cones, mysterious puddles and surly, slow moving custodians who inhabited concourse L.  I decided to treat myself and it occurred to me there was at least one benefit to these less than glamorous surroundings; although everything at the airport costs way too much, $6.99 for a small cup of coffee at McDonalds sure beats the $13.99 offering at Starbucks in concourse H.