I’ve had the unfortunate pleasure of spending my fair share of nights sleeping in an airport terminal. My most prolific days were back in college, when I couldn’t afford an extra night in a hotel. The glory days, they say. Though, if I’m honest, that’s happened in recent-ish memory too. Of course, there have been a handful of delayed or cancelled flights that necessitated an in-terminal snooze as well.

But times have changed. Or I have, apparently. Recently I was flying out of JFK en route to London with an extra night to spare. We had about 24 hours, though sadly most of that time was going to be spent on our computers, biding time until the PTO kicked in. There really wasn’t enough time to venture into the city for shenanigans - next time, I told myself. Instead, I figured it’d be a good opportunity to try out the TWA Hotel.

I fully expected it to be gimmicky - an overly trite attempt at selling nostalgia for a time when flying felt less tedious. But one drink later, sitting in the Sunken Lounge on those ruby red seats, listening to some bar banter, watching the flipping and flapping of the old departures board, and I was fully bought in.

I love airports late at night. I mean, they’re a strange place during the day - we all know airports exist in a liminal plane outside space and time. But even more so at night. The business travelers and families are mostly gone. Everyone’s a few drinks deep and the bartenders have a little extra “fuck off” energy. Meanwhile, the fluorescent lights and jet lag have sent you into a state of delirium. The TWA Hotel’s retro, mid-century fever dream was a fun addition to the airport high.

It did confirm one long-held belief of mine: romance died with the split-flap display.