It starts around 6:45 a.m.—a faint, faraway boom, followed by a low growl that makes my stomach tighten and hands clench. Within seconds, the growl turns into a low rumbling, then a loud rumbling, then an intensely loud roar and whine, up to 70 decibels, as a 737 shoots over its low path across the Mulholland Corridor.

This goes on constantly for the next four hours as the planes of Southwest and other airlines fly west from Hollywood Burbank Airport and over Studio City, where I live, and the homes of 200,0000 of my fellow San Fernando Valley residents, from Toluca Lake to Encino.

In the late morning, the frequency of these flights slows down, though they are joined by scores of helicopter flights that follow the same path. About 5:00 p.m., the 737s pick up their pace again, along with low-flying UPS and FedEx jets.

This goes on until about 10 p.m., when the celebrity and business flights enter the narrow airspace in droves, jetting to and from Las Vegas, Salt Lake City, or even Anaheim or Santa Monica. Things die down after 11 p.m., when only the occasional American or JetBlue flight makes a connection, or when Jay-Z needs to head out to a meeting in New York.

For many Angelenos, the Burbank airport is a well-loved alternative to LAX. But 7 years ago, a sudden shift in flight patterns at Burbank airport allowed for more flights and forced more of them south of the 101 freeway. Those of us living under the changed flight paths now contend with a new level of daily noise, air pollution, and a huge amount of black plane soot in our yards, trees, and plants.

Several activist groups have labeled this jet superhighway a “sacrifice zone”—a place where others profit off residents’ health and safety degradations. An estimated 10,000 school children live and study under this jet superhighway, which also spans 75,000 acres of Santa Monica Mountains parkland that is home to a dwindling wildlife population and draws hikers and others from all over Southern California.

How did a part of Los Angeles that is both densely populated and contains legally protected green space become a dumping ground for jet fuel soot and dangerous levels of noise pollution?

In late 2016, the Federal Administration of Aviation (FAA) shifted flight paths south ostensibly to save money on fuel and modernize its flight procedures. Most communities deeply impacted by this shift did not know about the change until it was too late for residents to file petitions or protest. One day in the winter of that year, several jets in rapid succession flew so low over our home that we thought there was military action nearby. Seven years later, 100 to 200 flights per day go directly or nearly directly over my home.

At the time of the change, this specific swatch of land was governed by some of the most vocal environmental champions in the Los Angeles—City Councilmembers Paul Krekorian and Paul Koretz.

They, as well as a deputy from then-Senator Kamala Harris’ office, attended meetings with the public about the new flight paths with and formal task force meetings with the public and the FAA from September 2019 to May 2020. Former Los Angeles City Attorney. Mike Feuer and current City Attorney Hydee Feldstein-Soto have filed lawsuits against the FAA over the shift in flight patterns and the proposed airport terminal expansion, respectively. But those legal actions have not stopped the FAA.

Congressman Adam B. Schiff has asked the FAAA for a review of noise around the airport, and Congressman Brad Sherman wants the project halted until the FAA can reduce the noise and environmental impacts on the community. But the FAA informed Sherman that the recommendations made by the task force didn’t meet federal safety criteria. The agency recently issued a draft Environmental Assessment on the proposed changes to the airport’s southern departures. The public can submit comments until January 24.

Meanwhile, the airport is growing, with more flights now than in 2016. The airport’s proposed expansion of its NextGen satellite system, an upgrade to one of its terminals, and a change in airport configuration will almost certainly bring even more flights and more noise to the Mulholland Corridor.  The airport will also be using federal funds designated for its terminal expansion in litigation involving the project.

Who benefits from a larger, busier airport, and this flight path? Southwest and other airlines, which boost the tax revenue for the city of Burbank. No single community should have to bear the brunt of the airport’s noise and environmental impact. The airport should fairly disperse the flights and revert to higher altitudes.

Los Angeles City and County leadership, the state’s Santa Monica Mountains Conservancy, and the Mountains Recreation and Conservation Authority all have stakes in the impacts caused by the Burbank airport. They may be the only people able to bring the federal regulators to the table. Meanwhile, my neighbors and I, as well as the animals and plants of the Santa Monica Mountains, are suffering.

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Is “love” too strong a word to use for an airport–especially for this somewhat dinky secondary (tertiary?) gateway? It’s true that the Bob Hope Airport is small and outdated; in January, American Airlines pulled out, leaving it strapped for cash. When you think of L.A., you think of LAX, even if it is an immense modernist nightmare.

Bob Hope is charmingly retro in its human scale, starting with the way you board planes by walking out onto the tarmac and up the front or rear stairs. To fly here from JFK’s state-of-the-art and cavernous Terminal 5, with its shiny sushi bar and touch-screen monitors for ordering pre-flight meals, is like flying back in time. You can walk the length of the two compact terminals in a matter of minutes. The security lines move fast, and the TSA staff seem friendlier than elsewhere (you half expect them to remember your name from the last time). So, yes, I have come to love this cozy airport named after a comedian that’s an astonishingly short drive up the 5 from Los Feliz, where Dan and I are now living.

Although the curb at the Bob Hope Airport was the site of a few teary goodbyes when I used to fly back to New York, it was also where we found each other again every time I visited. It’s hard to make a connection, or to talk about the things that really matter, even with someone you love, when you’re not face-to-face. For weeks or months, we’d conduct our relationship over the phone–between meetings for me and classes for him–in a way that felt almost desultory. Even after my flight would land, with only a few hundred yards between us, there was something that didn’t feel real about our being together. We’d talk on our cell phones as I walked through the terminal, updating each other on our progress (“Now I’m three minutes away”; “I’m circling again …”)–and then I’d be outside, and I’d see him, or he’d see me, and with one big stupid smile I’d know we were OK. What matters most at Bob Hope isn’t any hulking antiseptic infrastructure but the people.

Now that I’m living and working in L.A., trips to and from the Bob Hope Airport usually mean I’m traveling on business. I still relish the ease of it all. I’m consistently shocked by how quickly I can make it from our apartment to the airport, park, and be at the gate. Even as I’m taking off my shoes and getting out my liquids, I chat up security as I breeze through the screening; at least twice, I’ve been asked about where I got my styling cream, and how I like it. In Burbank, I am that rare, satisfied, even cheerful airport traveler.

And now, like Dan before me, I get to come to Bob Hope to pick up and reconnect with other people I love. When my two best friends flew in for a weekend in January, the traffic cop almost ticketed them for jumping into my car before I reached the loading zone. We begged forgiveness, tripping over each other to explain how long we’d spent apart, before she let me off with a warning.

But to be honest, I wouldn’t have cared if I had been given a ticket. My friends had traveled across a continent, I was the destination, and the Bob Hope Airport had once again made it easier than one would believe it could possibly be, in this big, sprawling city, for us to find one another.

Sarah Rothbard is managing & books editor of Zócalo Public Square.

*Photo by Sarah Rothbard

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