We Interrupt This Program to Bring You the World's Worst Airport

Why do I feel like I am in a washing machine when I am at Atlanta's airport? I mean, coming and going, daytime, nighttime. Who in her mind would want to change planes at this human crossroads of chaos?

The view from the air, the crisscrossing of the highways and interstates and cars, trucks, trucks, and cars on the red clay soon gives you to know you have lots to dread, for awaiting you below is a human tornado full of bodies churning up. Whenever I land at Atlanta, I am always so happy I don't live there.

Is it because Atlanta is the nation's busiest, and all the people walk up and down, across and yon, hither and dither all over you, yakking into their cell phones, or screaming at someone nearby?

My goodness gracious sakes! The food court at E concourse? Like it is not noisy enough, my gosh, and there on Wednesday afternoon was a real pianist playing his instrument, and why? Who can hear music when shouts and yells at the fast-food court raise the decibel level to that of a space ship lifting off from Cape Canaveral? I mean, really!

When we (Delta) taxied to a gate upon arrival from Albuquerque, we were kept waiting on board 30 minutes while an airport crew readied itself(you could see them from a window) and the pilot announced, "wing equipment repair" needed to be made. You mean, the repair could not wait until we de-planed? You got that right, sista.

Talk about a dichotomy: Albuquerque, location of gentility, manners, charm, and beauty. The security staff doesn't growl (Atlanta), bite, or snap. And, it has recycling bins!

Atlanta recycles? Oh, please. The woman at the information booth at E looked stunned at the question. I suppose it would make too much sense for the world's busiest (it gloats; who would want this appellation?) airport to recycle containers and trash. Who's got time? Inclination? Money?

The only bright note I found at the Atlanta airport was the organic restaurant, Natures Table Bistro, where the cucumber dill salad and the vegetarian chili were scrumptious. The woman dishing it up gave me a sample, and the man finishing up orders told me water was $300/cup (no typo). For just about $8, the airport food was surprisingly good. (I drank tap water.)

Upon arrival at BWI, I was knocked off my feet in a ladies room to find, hold on, freshly cut flowers in a vase with a pink ribbon. I mean, at an airport?

Maybe Atlanta could go to school in Albuquerque and Baltimore and learn some manners for it surely ain't got no Southern charm left. No one calls it a Southern city anymore, and it shows.