On this day in 1962, President Kennedy dedicated the Washington Dulles International Airport. This gives me the opportunity to talk about the day that I was stuck there. I was 17 years old and I had been accepted into one of these summer touring bands. Kids were flying in from all over the nation to be shuttled to some music conservatory in the middle of Virginia. (I can’t seem to find it.) Anyway, they were understaffed and I spent a good eight hours there.
But the weird thing about it was that the vast majority of the kids were from the south. I don’t know why. But even though I had traveled quite a bit in the south, I did not get on well with the southerners. Or maybe it is more correct to say that they had a problem with me. There were basically three people I got on with. There was a girl from Arizona who had a sense of adventure and who was the only one who backed me up when I pushed for us to go see, No Sex Please, We’re British. There was an older woman — a teacher — from Philadelphia who I learned much about the world from. And there was this crazy guy from Alaska who I used to sneak out with late at night and have great times in some of the best cities in Europe.
I’d never thought about it before, but maybe there really is something wrong with southerners. At least among that group, they were no fun. And this is during a period of my life when I was a pretentious young intellectual. But at least I wasn’t wedded to the rules and afraid of a little adventure. But anyway: Dulles.