Photograph by Getty Images
I’ve been to 45 countries and counting, and the gateway to every single one has been Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport. As someone who loves to travel and who is lucky enough to do it professionally as a journalist, I see ATL not just as my ticket to fly, but also as one of my happy places.
I never let myself get fully excited about any trip until I pass through security. It’s like a switch flips. I pick up my carry-on from the TSA conveyor belt, and without fail, my anticipation skyrockets. Silly? Perhaps, but outside this sprawling 4,700-acre complex are deadlines, traffic, the packing of bags, and all manner of barriers to getting away. On the other side of security, the once-theoretical trip becomes reality. It’s almost like crossing a portal to another realm. Those obstacles fade into the background.
I have my routine down to a science. I arrive at the international terminal an hour and 15 minutes before my flight (never checking a bag), breeze through the TSA PreCheck lane (even the sometimes surly TSA staffers add to the experience), and—if I’m flying after noon—swing upstairs to the mezzanine food court in Concourse F to score a fried chicken taco with Mexican street corn from The Original El Taco (the airport is the only place to get a fix now that the Virginia-Highland location is shuttered).
When you travel as much as I do, it’s only natural that you have go-to airport spots. I know, for example, that the Kiehl’s store in F tends to be generous with samples, which is handy if I’ve forgotten a key piece of skincare, and that XpresSpa’s multiple locations stock compression socks (a must for long-haul flights). If I unexpectedly find myself with extra time to kill, a walk between Concourses A and B beneath Flight Paths, the glowing permanent installation by the late artist Steve Waldeck, is always a visually arresting treat. Every visit to ATL calls to mind past trips—from nearby places, such as Virginia to visit my family, to farther-flung destinations, from Copenhagen to South Africa—and invites me to anticipate the adventures and experiences that await on the other end of my flight.
I’m a realist, though. My relationship with ATL hasn’t always been idyllic. I found myself stuck in Concourse A for 12-plus hours during the infamous Snowmageddon of 2014, posted up at the bar at Varasano’s Pizzeria before eventually taking MARTA to crash at a friend’s apartment. Then there was the time I got stranded in Jamaica after a 2017 wedding because ATL’s power was out for half a day; an underground fire triggered the cancellation of thousands of flights. Another time, when I was returning from an assignment in Eastern Europe with a high fever, our plane landed in the far reaches of Concourse E. That more than 20-minute walk to customs was pure torture.
But as with any long-term relationship, you take the good with the bad. Part of what I love about ATL is that it’s usually blissfully uneventful, thanks to my down-to-a-science routine and the airport’s low-key efficiency. (Who doesn’t appreciate the consistency of the Plane Train’s arrival every two minutes?) For me, it’s where anticipation transforms into adventure and where the theoretical becomes tangible. Every stamp in my passport started here, and I’ll always be grateful.
This article appears in our October 2025 issue.
