But, sure enough, there does appear to be a transit station beyond the ramp, far off in the distance. I mean way, way off in the distance. And did I mention that it is really cold and wet and windy? That I’m dressed for waiting around inside airports and not for circumnavigating them?
I feel like a jerk, griping in my mind (and muttering aloud to myself like a crazy lady) about who would be stupid enough to locate the transit station that serves the airport so far from the airport? I mean, shouldn’t I be grateful that there is finally a decent transit option at all? But then I wonder, if I were with my dad, could we get a wheelchair assist all the way to train?
I am freezing and crabby when I finally reach the station and start searching for the ticket machines (there are only two, so don’t arrive during a busy time), still fuming over the incompetence and idiocy of our auto-centric culture.
The station itself is ok though – industrial feeling, but clean and tidy with art that pays homage to the area’s native people.
The sun makes an appearance on the trip into town, briefly illuminating the familiar skyline and making me glad to be back here again.