Checked to Destination
A love letter to airport people.
Recently I was discussing an upcoming travel day with a friend and I mentioned that I had a 4 hour layover. They lamented on my behalf how long and laborious that layover sounded, how they didn’t want to be stuck anywhere for that long with nothing to do and no one to talk to. They mentioned that they’d probably just spend it on their phone, thus ruining the rest of their day. In the spirit of ‘know thyself’ I appreciate that observation, but this couldn’t be further from my feelings on the subject matter.
It’s probably because I relish any time spent at an airport, and once I get over my travel jitters, the scramble of packing, and the occasionally arduous TSA lines, I really enjoy my time suspended in the limbo that only this particular experience brings. It's probably because all I want right now is time and space with nothing to do and no one to talk to.
I love to people watch. Getting a glimpse into the other worlds circulating around mine is interesting to me. Watching the micro ecosystems of life move from point A to point B, with nothing else in common other than grouped destinations feels like a spectator sport.
Different airports, different terminals, and even different gates have their own particular flair.
You can likely pick out the gate going to Orlando in a lineup of any airport terminals– double the children of any other gate, and many dressed for the occasion in Princess Tiana pajamas, or Goofy stickers plastering the walls of their candy colored miniature suitcases. Parents, sometimes begrudgingly, with visible mickey ears in tow, a purchase that seems economical ahead of time before you realize that they are impossible to pack for fear of crushing.
Today is the aforementioned travel day.
Nashville International Airport
Gate C14
As the barista handed me my iced coffee with a chipper attitude and a soft smile, she wished me safe travels and asked if I wanted more ice for my water bottle.
There’s a woman seated next to me in a camel colored sweater with a white collar peeking out from the neckline. She reminds me of both my mother and my mother-in-law combined, boisterous and scholarly all at once, with kind eyes, clear glasses frames, and a smile that she flashes infrequently enough to make it special when you’re on the receiving end. She asks her husband, a swagless fifty something, to get her a bagel and an iced coffee after eyeing my breakfast selection, and when he brings it back to her she says a long drawn out “Gracias” in an accent that is unmistakably Texan. He responds with “De-friggan-nada” in a way that makes me like him.
Latch by Disclosure featuring Sam Smith is playing, and while I’d never queue up this song I am into it. There’s a man in a suit in front of me, eating his salad, typing on this computer and shimmying his shoulders almost involuntarily. Latch by Disclosure featuring Sam Smith is the hit of the year at gate C14. It is 7:30 AM.
Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport
Gate E57
I am being subjected to a very loud conversation about a Human Resources drama that could be a telenovela in my dreams, but in reality it is neither entertaining nor compelling. Gold Bond medicated lotion is being applied to hands that are wrung with anxiety. “If she was less comfortable, maybe she’d be more successful.” I’m learning too many bits of information about subjects I have no further context on. The budget year starts in July. If it’s made of wood it might not last. He’s cheap. Despite the conversation being boring, I can’t stop listening. At times it almost feels appropriate to chime in. It’s now that I realize I don’t have my headphones on. Rookie mistake.
I am almost interested when she says: “What does he like? Is he into hunting? Is he into fishing? Is he into drinking? I need to break the ice.”
A perfect ending to her act, the curtains can close now. I can go search for food.
Everyone in this terminal looks familiar. The mid fifties woman in front of me looks like she could be from my hometown of North Wilkesboro, NC. So much so that I almost asked her where she went to high school. I don’t know why but I have an aversion to “You look like someone I know.” so I don’t ask her. If she is from my hometown, I bet she knows my aunts.
I wonder whether or not she’s actually familiar to me in some way, or if she’s just got one of those faces. Then an early 20’s college kid walks up, and he also looks familiar.
I guess I’m just looking for something I’ve seen before in this airport I’ve stepped foot in for the first time.
I decided on getting a Mediterranean bowl from a tabbouleh, babaganoush and hummus festooned bar that reminds me of Chipotle. It is exceptionally good, better than I expected. It’s only flaw is my own fault. I get lured in by the ability to order the spicy version of every individual ingredient I’m adding. It is so spicy, almost too spicy. I didn’t even know you could do that at an airport.
I settle on a quiet corner of tables near my gate. I text my mother and tell her I can see the Washington Monument and the White House from my gate. I text my friend Sydney who lives in Washington and ask her if she can see the Monument from where she is. She says yes and I hope she goes to look at it. We’re sharing a glance at the same thing in the same city, wishing we were sharing lunch instead.
A man in a black striped suit that is ill-fitting and a brown stetson that fits him perfectly sits in front of me, and pulls out his laptop from a canvas briefcase with a company logo on it.
There are so many suits in the DC airport. I wonder whether these men are politicians, or self important businessmen, or people who just enjoy wearing suits. None of them fit quite right, none of them are the outfits that these men think they’re pulling off.
A man in a tan blazer, medium tan chinos, a brown plaid button down and ostrich cowboy boots sits down, and pulls out his gigantic iPad to conduct business of some kind. If I had to guess I’d say he was a professor. Then he pulls a Mountain Dew Code Red out of his bag and I almost audibly laugh at how I would have never guessed that is his beverage of choice.
Today I think that maybe I’ll escape my travels without seeing someone somewhere donning Trump apparel, but alas. Right as I’m about to board my plane, I see a man in a shirt with his face on it and his name emblazoned with an American Flag. He is boarding a flight to Jacksonville, Florida. No one is surprised.
A fire alarm begins going off at the gate next to mine. It is an unpleasant 15 minutes.
Just as I begin losing my faith in humanity a man sits down next to me with a book called Hot Sudoku.
Toronto Pearson International Airport
Customs and Baggage Claim
Customs at YYZ is a free for all. No one knows quite what to do or where to go and the best advice anyone can offer is "follow the flow of people." I make my way through, slow and steady. In a rare turn of events the estimated 40 minutes to get through only takes 20.
As I round the corner after baggage claim, I see flowers and balloons for friends, family members and lovers who arrived at their destination. There are signs in languages that I can't read, but I understand entirely: We love you and we're so glad you're here. Welcome home.
I see someone in a black beanie and overalls, holding a small mylar balloon, an emoji with a kissy face. She's holding a diet coke and smiling with every muscle in her face and she's waiting for me.
I've made it to where I'm going, to a place to call home for a time.
Airports always remind me that people can be shockingly wonderful. If I give the life happening around me my attention, more often than not I find that I am delighted to be alive, and buzzing with the world around me.
I always walk away from time spent in the vortex of an airport reminded that we’re all somewhere in the middle, somewhere between Arrivals and Departures whether we like it or not, and it’s much more enjoyable to give the experience its due attention.
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