In case you haven't been through Miami International Airport (MIA, for reasons that will become abundantly clear in a second), the only appropriate way to describe it is: war zone. Since I relocated my life and livelihood to a more Caribbean angle, I have had the good fortune of flying through Miami pretty much every time I travel, as 1) MIA is the hub for American Airlines, 2) American, for all their flaws, is the only reliable airline I can travel down island on, and 3) the other option is to avoid Miami and fly through San Juan, Puerto Rico. Which is somehow both worse and better. But Miami is one-of-a-kind. And not in a good way. They continue to be under full construction in terminals C, D, and E. I think A might be done. And if you could manage to not have to re-clear through security, I could tell you about the wonders that certainly reside in terminals F, G, and H. But, as they say in Maine, "you can't get there from here."
The real reason to fly through Miami (if you're flying east-west) is to get what I like to call "the big plane". If you pick up San Juan, you're bound to get a turboprop. Which isn't so bad, except that a lot of the local travelers on said turboprops invariably applaud when the plane reaches its destination. Which is nice and fun in a "isn't that quaint?" sort of way, until you realize that the same people, when on the big plane to Miami, don't clap at all. Unless the ride sucked. So I like to avoid San Juan and the fearsome turboprops. That, and American likes to stick everyone in San Juan in a airport purgatory, what with losing luggage, canceling flights, and generally being late for most of the day. So, with gritted teeth, I pick Miami (unless I'm flying from New England, in which case, get a direct to San Juan and hope that 1.5 hours you bought flying direct aren't lost as you stand at Gate 1A (the commuter gate) watching as plane after plane gets canceled...)
Returning from my Christmas holiday (and a big Ups! to all my friends who I got a chance to see), I was on the 5:30 bigboy plane to Miami. Which was late. And when it did show up, it was painted in a retro 1950s decor. Or maybe, what with American re-organizing their maintenance schedule to save money and fend off bankruptcy, this was the last plane in the bullpen. All in all, the flight was nice and I managed to work on most of the crossword puzzle while also marvelling at the good luck of both 1) flying directly over my island house on takeoff (always a treat to see your home from the air), and 2) flying directly past South Caicos, TCI (a former residency nigh 10 years ago). It was as if American was treating me for all the abuse that would come from MIA in 2 hours time.
And I use "abuse" lightly here. Upon arriving, I discovered I had a relatively easy walk to my next plane. With all the construction going on, you can easily find yourself walking 20 minutes for a plane that is closing its doors in 15. And it was even out on the isolated bubble end of Terminal E, which is only accessible by tram (the only people mover at the airport). I discovered Terminal E gates 20-34 a few trips back when I was desperate for a restaurant serving beer and sandwiches (in that order). So I was naturally excited. But, being MIA, the tingling feeling was quickly lost. Gates 20-34 (I assuredly have been here before, now that I think about it, waiting for an international flight) is a cross between a Moroccan bazaar, a New York Subway, and an insane asylum. Every three seconds, the debilitating muzak (how's that for an adjective?) would get interuppted by a different gate attendant who, it seems, was literally screaming into their microphone to announce the departure of a flight to Montreal or Paris or Chicago or St. Louis. The decibel difference between the muzak and the announcements couldn't have been greater. And having fought an ear infection (from diving, mind you), it literally hurt. Add to this the idea that the design team decided to place a speaker roughly every three feet, so that no matter how self-reliant and responsible you were to make sure you didn't miss your flight, you couldn't find a quiet place anywhere. It was less than pleasing and definitely contributed to my overall discomfit when I finally boarded my connection and spent the next 2 hours bouncing over the Gulf of Mexico on my way back to Houston, a city that, at night, has all the charm of the future city depicted in Blade Runner.
Of course, while fighting off the urge to sleep, working on the remains of the crossword puzzle (I had to peek to finish), and wondering who is in charge of American's inflight entertainment (they were showing an episode of "Seventh Heaven" with a cast that 1) no longer included Jessica Biel, and 2) did include Ashlee Simpson. WTF?), I decided that there must be a way to fix MIA. Being that it's Miami, American home of the all-night dance club, if they're going to blast us with volume in a wondrously out-dated and worn-out 1950s decor waiting lounge, at least they could turn it into a dance club with some good music. With nary a tv in the joint, they could easily pull off a nice disco. It can't be any worse than what they got now.
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