HANDS FREE, HOPE FREE
Every fixture in this room is motion activated, and each one has developed its own private theory of what motion is. The airport spent a great deal of public money to make sure no traveler would ever have to touch anything. It succeeded. Nothing here can be touched, and very little of it works.
The faucet runs for exactly a second and a half before it stops and demands another wave, like a slot machine that pays out in tap water. The soap dispenser fires whenever anyone walks past it and never when a hand is beneath it, so a slick of pink foam has collected on the counter. The paper towel machine dispenses six inches and then retracts into contemplation. The hand dryer is strong enough to peel skin.
The toilets are the worst offenders. They flush three times while you are hanging up your coat, a roaring, violent display, and then, at the one moment a flush is actually needed, they go dead. Every stall has its little red sensor eye, blinking, watching, deciding.
The room is clean, I will grant that. The machines would never allow anything else. A traveler can clear security, customs and a gate change here in under an hour. Persuading a faucet to finish the job takes longer. Somebody sold this airport a future, and the future does not wash your hands.
SCORE: 3 plungers. Clean, and governed by robots with commitment issues.