LAX -- you gotta love it!

I sing to you of LAX , recently ranked 19th out of the country’s 22 largest airports, and I don’t care.

I love LAX, from Lot C to the Tom Bradley terminal, from Encounter restaurant hunkered over the buses and cars like a “War of the Worlds” invader to the uniformly uncomfortable seating in every gate area.

I love that although you can buy the travel-requisite beer, trail mix, bagels and Nora Roberts novels in every terminal, LAX still looks like an airport rather than a mall. I love its horseshoe shape, which makes perfect sense and doesn’t require an underground tram and seven levels of escalators.

I love that all the airlines are in essentially the same place, so if you inadvertently get dropped off at the wrong one, it is possible to get to the correct one without spending another $30 in cab fare.

When I see those inexplicable columns rise like a weird modern-day homage to the Colosseum, my heart lifts right along with them. Especially in the summer, even with the threat of madding crowds. Because LAX in the summer means our big family vacation is about to begin, that my husband and I and our two children are about to go away, away, away, to Ireland, to Italy, this year to Amsterdam and Germany.

And the adventure always begins at LAX.

Walking into the Tom Bradley International Terminal, with luggage enough for three weeks and two children clutching new coloring books, it is impossible not to feel excited. Here are all the thrilling airlines -- Lufthansa, Aer Lingus, Korean Airlines -- and here are their many splendored lines: people visiting family in the Philippines with enormous brown-paper-wrapped boxes in tow, couples on their way to a Paris honeymoon, families going to visit grandparents in Spain, executives heading to London for the big international meeting. It’s pandemonium in a dozen languages, and we get to take our place in line and be part of it. Which certainly beats working.

The trick is to give yourself enough time and to consider that time part of the fun, or at least part of the story you will tell of your trip. Will I ever forget the pride I felt when the man at the Air France counter complimented me on my packing -- “just this for all of you for three weeks? I will tell my wife”?

Our kids know that if they are good in line, they get to eat McDonald’s one last time before leaving the country (during our trips we strictly confine them to local junk food). So after we check our bags, we go up to the food court -- through windows at the left and right we can watch the planes, while beneath us teem the endless queues of fellow travelers.

Especially in Los Angeles, where there are no great public squares, no teeming sidewalks, it is worth the price of the Super Shuttle just to see the world converge for a few minutes.

People complain that LAX is too small, but having spent hours of my life, irretrievable days of my life, burrowing through the underground tunnels of O’Hare and Dallas and Atlanta and JFK, I think it is perfect. Just enough moving sidewalks to make it interesting without being a marathon.

Oh sure, I’m a little worried about recent gloomy predictions of seasonal pandemonium brought on by an increase in passengers without the seemingly necessary increase in seats, but worry burns calories and pandemonium can be interesting.

There will always be lines, there will always be waits, but that’s the beauty of an airport. It is an in-between place, fueled by anticipation. Little is expected of you here beyond a valid passport, a measure of courtesy and the absence of Swiss Army knives on your person. Instead, you are allowed to enter a state of simple preparation so scarce in these multi-tasking times. With or without prayer, or, for that matter, the latte.

Coming home is, inevitably, a different experience. The trip is over; anticipation is replaced by exhaustion and a simple desire to make it home still speaking to one another.

But LAX comes shining through. Even after 16 years, the sight of the sheer size of Los Angeles beneath me is always too amazing to ignore. Here are the palm trees, the endless ocean, the fine white light and the humidity-free warmth. Stepping out into the sun, there is always the promise of something in the vague saltiness of the air, even with the grumpy kids, the flight-fatigued fanny and the depleted wallet.

This is Los Angeles, the urban paradise, the city of dreams; something great, something tremendous will undoubtedly happen very soon.

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Times staff writer Mary McNamara will be among the 18.7 million passengers that LAX anticipates through Labor Day.

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Sing its praises: “L.A. International Airport” became a hit country song after Susan Raye recorded it in 1971. Listen and learn more LAX history at www.lawa.org/lax/laxHistoryMain.cfm.

Otherworldly: Encounter Restaurant and Bar has a Space Age vibe, complete with lava lamps. 11 a.m. daily till 9

or 9:30 p.m. Bar closes at

10 nightly. 209 World Way,

L.A. (310) 215-5151, encounterlax.com

The red eye: OK, so the hot club LAX isn’t at the airport, but its sleek design was inspired by the real deal. 1714 N. Las Palmas Ave., Hollywood. 10 p.m.-2 a.m. Wednesdays-

Saturdays. (323) 464-0171, www.laxhollywood.com