I've always loved airports.
As much as the "waiting" part of traveling isn't terribly exciting, waiting in the terminal is one of the places I feel the most calm and peaceful.
Weird. I know. But hear me out.
As I sat staring at a curly-haired man, I began to think about him. He had brown eyes. Maybe his mother has brown eyes too. Big brown eyes that caught a man from across the room, that drew that man in and swallowed him up as he fell in love. And from that love between that man and the brown-eyed woman came this curly-haired man. Now full grown. Probably loved by women, and loved some back. Maybe he's the life of the party. Maybe he's notoriously shy and reserved. Perhaps he likes poetry -- or maybe action movies. Adventure. Hiking. Coffee shops. Jazz. Hip-hop. Maybe he's afraid of heights, or spiders. Maybe he's afraid of being alone or lost. He probably has secrets -- deeds and thoughts he's never whispered to another soul except for that freckled blue-eyed girl he used to spend nights under the stars with. But she's gone now, and he's waiting for a plane to take him from where he was to where he will be.
That's what I love about airports. That last part. Despite whatever else is going on in that curly-haired man's life, right there in the airport terminal he is in-between. And so is everyone else. Each person in that airport has a life of their own -- friends, family, a job, an education, dark thoughts, lonely nights, sparkling aspirations, quiet hopes, and a roaring appetite for something. But here they are -- not in one place or another. Travelling. Separated. Transitory. In-between.
And somehow that is a comfort to me. And strangely intimate. I get the feeling you can learn a lot about a person uprooted from their environment, with their valuables and neccesities packed at their side, waiting to be suspended in the air for a time.
As much as the "waiting" part of traveling isn't terribly exciting, waiting in the terminal is one of the places I feel the most calm and peaceful.
Weird. I know. But hear me out.
As I sat staring at a curly-haired man, I began to think about him. He had brown eyes. Maybe his mother has brown eyes too. Big brown eyes that caught a man from across the room, that drew that man in and swallowed him up as he fell in love. And from that love between that man and the brown-eyed woman came this curly-haired man. Now full grown. Probably loved by women, and loved some back. Maybe he's the life of the party. Maybe he's notoriously shy and reserved. Perhaps he likes poetry -- or maybe action movies. Adventure. Hiking. Coffee shops. Jazz. Hip-hop. Maybe he's afraid of heights, or spiders. Maybe he's afraid of being alone or lost. He probably has secrets -- deeds and thoughts he's never whispered to another soul except for that freckled blue-eyed girl he used to spend nights under the stars with. But she's gone now, and he's waiting for a plane to take him from where he was to where he will be.
That's what I love about airports. That last part. Despite whatever else is going on in that curly-haired man's life, right there in the airport terminal he is in-between. And so is everyone else. Each person in that airport has a life of their own -- friends, family, a job, an education, dark thoughts, lonely nights, sparkling aspirations, quiet hopes, and a roaring appetite for something. But here they are -- not in one place or another. Travelling. Separated. Transitory. In-between.
And somehow that is a comfort to me. And strangely intimate. I get the feeling you can learn a lot about a person uprooted from their environment, with their valuables and neccesities packed at their side, waiting to be suspended in the air for a time.
6 comments:
I have those same thoughts, though not so poetically, when I ride the subway. What stories would these people share if I only talked with them for one day? On one particular occassion I did get the chance to talk to a man on the Tube after he saw me reading the Bible and told me, 'That's a good book.' We chatted and learned a little about each other's worship. It was great.
like :)
I also love airports. This could easily be a book. Just give each person a few pages
Liminality- being "betwixt and between" See Victor Turner, anthropologist. The liminal state is one full of potentiality. It is also threatening. It is ambiguous. People like certainty. Possibility comes from instability. One in the liminal state can revert back to the status quo or resist it. Change happens in the cracks and fissures. The liminal moments must be seized in order to change. You should check out Liminalities: A Journal of Performance Studies.
Love you!
I'm glad I love this post, cause I HATE airports.
I really love traveling, though. And you. And the way you think and express your thinks with words.
I hate airports because to me they mean "goodbye." Last plane ride I took I was such a brave girl from security until I was in my seat. But something happened and the flight attendant (in an adorable southern accent- you can always trust people with southern accents) asked me if I needed a hug. Or a tissue.
I echo the approval of the preceding comments. This feels like the beginning of a great essay or creative nonfiction piece. And I'm crazy about that last line: "waiting to be suspended in the air for a time."
(shem)
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