Popination Aviation

a series of unhinged personal essays disguised as pub reviews. Today: airport bars.

Specifically, Wolfgang Puck’s, on DIA concourse B. Why? Well:

Wolfgang Puck makes it healthy!

…but other than that, it was recommended. Well, not exactly, but. I’ll explain:

Wolfgang Puck’s at DIA

My partner is, and has been for many years, a regular business traveler. He’s well traveled in other ways too, so suffice to say he views DIA as a sort of home away from home. Each time he enters DIA on his way wherever, he always finds his way to Concourse B and the little Wolfgang Puck's airport café there. When pressed why, he revealed that when one travels so much, one gets accustomed to the fact that shit will go sideways at some point. Probably at several points. And so it’s important to have some dependable nodes that are reliable, even if not as stellar as could possibly be. And since I don’t travel very much myself, I take his advice as a seasoned airport popinator. 

But! Why am I traveling and where am I going? Why am I leaving my precious partner behind? 

Believe me: the alone time (speaking of precious) is so welcome to my busy, parenting partner, and so every once in a while I’ll hit up my good old friend from grad school who’s got himself a house in Wichita, and demand to take over his guest room and that he squire me around to some good Wichita breweries and shoot the shit the way we do on our podcast, but in person. It’s a fun weekend vacation for me and a peaceful weekend of blessed solitary self care for my partner.

My friendship with my grad school friend (let’s call him JQM) began in grad school, on day one. We used to drink pitchers of beer and talk writing & literature. It was Naropa’s MFA program in Writing & Poetics, and it was a good way to process the stuff we were going through in the program. Now we do this very same thing over a podcast, called The Outrider. I’ll chat a little bit more about him in next week’s popination, but for now, it’s enough to relate that a vacay with my friend was the event that brought me to Popinate in airports.

It’s funny— it freaks people out when I visit my male friend without my male life partner, and stay in his guest room and pal around. It sort of freaked one of JQM’s friends out a little this weekend, too, and it amused us both to be able to educate folks about masculinity, friendship, and healthy relationships. In fact, this trip really breathed some fresh air into both my partner and me, and, when JQM remarked that one of his other friends had just assumed we were sleeping together, and my reaction was: “Ew!” it made everyone laugh. Because it was true.*

*now, my friend JQM is a perfectly attractive man—the ‘ew’ may have been unfair. But as we laughingly explained, that’s in no way our relationship, and never was. Never will be. Doesn’t mean we can’t be good friends. Many heterosexual people these days can’t wrap their brains around that. 

It’s always necessary to have a drink when at the airport, as long as you have enough time to wait. Doesn’t matter what time it is in the outside world. Time has no meaning in an airport (particularly the otherworldly DIA).

I have discussed the non-Euclidean geometry of hotels before, when I discussed Kenopsia. But I notice that airports have a similar liminality (say that 5 times fast). Wolfgang Puck’s DIA establishment is a bit like this, and the airport as a whole sure is—it’s got a spare angular look with the angles in unnatural places, and it’s hidden under an eave of sorts. Once I sat, it took about an eon to get me served. 

Is it comfortable? No. Does it give one an odd feeling of safety? Yes. Weirdly. Methinks this is the norm for airport bars. Let me know if you agree, I the comments, especially if you’re a frequent flyer like my partner. 

On the way home (Farewell to Wichita):

The Air Capital Bar looks kinda enticing, ngl; and they even have something about a plane delay on their sign, too. That bar consists of one shortish steel bar counter, underlaid with neon trim and seated with leather topped stools. One big screen playing sports perched atop the bar back. One scruffy tattooed guy is sitting there and. Well it does look comfy. But I chose to spend my nearly couple hours at the larger airpub just across the walkway:

“Serving beer as cold as your ex!”

River City Brewing (Part Deux)

Of course, you haven’t yet seen my River City Brewing Part 1, because that was part of my epic Wichita Pub Crawl, which you’ll see next week. But there’s another one in the Wichita airport, and the same beautiful ethereal bartender with the ice blue contacts and long colorful braids and gorgeous swishy ways is the same fae or human that has served me each time I pop (inate) here on my way home from visiting. No idea if they remember me or not but I feel like I complimented them on their phenomenal look last time I was here and feel awkward. I guess this weekend has left me socially drained. Ambiverts gonna ambivert. 

But I’m sipping an ENORMOUS way-bigger-than-pint of the brewery’s west coast IPA, and it’s right up my Tornado Alley. And as my flight gets delayed multiple times, we’ll see how many of these I end up working through. 

….Tornado Alley is the name of the beer I’m drinking. See what I did there? …I’ll see myself out. Up and out. Ahem.