I lived at a regional airport for a year. A nice little place, two runways, some hangars, a terminal that saw only partial use, and only one regular commercial flight going in and out of it. I lived at the flight school where I’d had my first lesson. Why? I needed a place to stay after a stormy breakup with a roommate, and I was friends with the owner.
But what was it like? To me, it was heaven. The Department of Natural Resources Hueys spooling up every morning, the sound of turbines going by, the Fire Patrol birds going out in the morning, the fuel trucks driving by. Watching the flight museum’s P-51 Mustang roar by on Saturdays. I loved walking through the hangar in the morning and saying hi to the three mechanics. I could get up and take a flight in the mornings, using the time I earned working the Hertz desk on the weekends. I also did a lot of volunteer work at the flight museum nearby, helping with events and such. In fact, I soloed a plane before I ever soloed a car!
It was a good life, for a time, where I could just work and live and bank my rent money and spend time with flight students and mechanics. Eventually I had to really learn to drive, and I bought a house, and I got all responsible and stuff. I broke away from the owner of the flight school because of some serious irreconcilable differences. I still treasure those airport memories even though they are bittersweet.