The problem with an enduring legacy is that you won’t be there to curate your immortality and you never know where your name will go.
Julius Caesar would have been rather put out to learn that his name would live on attached to a popular croutonian salad, a haircut, and sunroof childbirth. But at least he would have had a fair shot at understanding the concepts.
More challenging might be explaining to great composers that they would become airports. Chopin (Warsaw) died 54 years before the Wright Brothers’ first flight; Mozart (Vienna) died more than a century before.
Getting an airport to yourself is a big ask. John Lennon and Louis Armstrong made it. English folk heroes don’t. No Fairport Convention Airport Convention Center.
Short of getting your name above the door, hometown love might get you a name on the store. You can now load up on Prince bobbleheads before you fly out of Minneapolis, while Seattle’s Sub Pop pop-up shop’s soft spot is Nirvana.
So, as we head into the era of commercial interplanetary travel, who gets the spaceport naming rights? For services to spacey songs, David Bowie gets at least a terminal. Bruno Mars gets a coffee shop. And this will be piped through at Arrivals.