It's the emptiness and calm that I like best about Friday afternoons at the airport. Any other day, the walkways and jetways are clogged with people in a hurry to move. But Fridays are different. There aren't any lines. Travelers take time to watch the airplanes slide across windows. What's important can wait until Monday. Capris, t-shirts, and open-toed shoes speak more of the destination that the departure. This human invention -- the "work week" -- ends effortlessly 56 times each year.

As for me, well, I'm outta here. How does Raleigh-Durham, North Carolina sound? I scheduled an interview at Duke University a few months ago, and the day has come. Am I prepared? Who knows: it's my first MBA interview. But, oh, am I so ready to travel.

Since United Express at Dulles is as timely as a Frenchman, I had arranged instead to travel via Philadelphia connecting to a US Airways flight into Raleigh. US Airways used to be one of the world's premier airlines. Even at my age, I remember that. It was not so long ago, was it? We were always eager for US Airways flights in and out of Paris and transiting through Pittsburgh or Philly was a delight. Fast-forward to 2004. US Airways is the victim of low-fare competition, poor management and demanding unions.
It's fighting for breath and it shows.

Not many people are smiling at Philadelphia International Airport. "What gate is the flight to Raleigh leaving from?" I ask a gate agent. "Wwweeellll, what does it say on your ticket." I think I see her almost roll her eyes. "Nothing about a gate, actually, which is why I stopped to ask you!" As if a smile would brighten her day, I smile. Marlene doesn't return the favour. "Give me your boarding pass!" tap tap tap ... "B5." Uhh, thanks.

B5 is empty. It's Friday, after all. I arrive with those of use who have been well-trained, exactly 20 minutes before departure. A quick headcount reveals about 45 passengers are waiting for this flight. But where's the crew? Where's the gate agent? Everyone is watching the clock.

15 minutes until departure. This airport's not much to look at. The old leather bench seats are torn in places, shedding their stuffing. There are strips of carpet missing, revealing the concrete and glue beneath. Strands of carpet, no doubt elongated by people and bag shuffling, stick up like fiber grass in need of mowing. There are so many scuff marks on the walls, did people just get so mad one day they started throwing their shoes around? Even the US Airways logo looks a little crooked hanging up there.

10 minutes until departure. The guy next to me is talking loudly into his cell phone in arabic. There's a drunk latino on the other side of the gate area talking loudly to himself. Every once in a while the intercom squawks about someone needing to be somewhere where they aren't. Maybe, like, our gate agent? I'm confused.

5 minutes until "departure." Here she comes. Dark hair, stiffened by the over-application of hair spray, a long coat and girly leather gloves with furry ends. She sighs, more for us than for herself, I think. Takes off her gloves, rips open a small packet and wipes down the computer and telephone with a disinfectant towel. A little strange, but ok. People start to form a line. The gate agent whips up her hand. "No questions! Just wait people. Wait! I don't know anything."

10 minutes after "departure", she grabs the mic. "Listen, people." Why does she refer to us like kindergardeners? "There's no captain for this flight. How the heck should I know where he is. Don't ask me. I don't know." An awkward pause let a few people grumble. "Soooo, THEY've called someone else. He should be in here in two hours. I can't do anything. So don't ask me." The mic drops back on the desk and she stares off into space.

Poor woman. Ain't no one going to mess with her tonight. Overworked at a company that might not be around too much longer. US Airways is preparing to die.

The arabic guy and I strike up conversation. The French have an expression for this: "Dans la meme galere." Roughly translated as, "In the same slave ship." Going through a difficult or trying experience, us humans bond. We discuss, in addition to the obvious, the state of the airline industry. "I bought my ticket for $108... YESTERDAY," he said. "Psshhh. Counting the people in this gate area, there's no way they're making money on this flight. They're probably doing this to us on purpose." I didn't necessarily agree, but it was an interesting idea.

But there! Look! At the end of the terminal there's someone walking towards us wearing a suit... on a Friday! Even thought our flight has been delayed over an hour, we are the happiest bunch of capri-, t-shirt-wearing travelers that night. I wasn't wearing capris.