There have been many times during the past five years that I have never wanted to see another airport, let alone another airplane. And yet I woke this morning with a sense of anticipation in spite of the forty hour journey ahead. After months of routine living, the prospect of going to the airport was an exciting one. Airports represent so many things to the traveler. Even the most sterile and run-down can contain pockets of deep emotion, reservoirs of memories, and spaces in which it feels like anything can happen.
Today’s journey started off like so many in the recent past. My husband was awake before the alarm clock went off. He knows I hate early mornings, and to make up for his insistence that we leave far earlier than I believe to be necessary, he makes breakfast and brings me a double espresso topped with steamed milk to entice me out of bed. I know better than to protest, and truth be told, I am (mostly) grateful that I never have to worry about missing a flight when he is in charge.
The early arrival at Pittsburgh’s International airport, nearly one hour before the ticket counter opened, meant that I ran into friends on their way to South Dakota. It also gave me time both for a leisurely breakfast and to study other passengers. I played a game in which I tried to identify those on flight to Toronto. I figured they would be mostly Canadian. I can’t tell you exactly what I look for when it comes to spotting a Canadian, but I did correctly pick out a few who showed up later at our gate. The young man in line ahead of me to board was not Canadian, however. He was a U.S. Marine beginning his journey, under orders, to Tokyo.
The scene that played out in front of me as we waited to board was a quiet one, but I haven’t stopped thinking about it. Three others surrounded the young soldier--a girlfriend (fiancé? wife?) and two older adults. I first noticed the tears pouring down the cheeks of the mom, and then I could see that the girlfriend was also weeping as she clung to the Marine. The adults eventually moved to the side to allow the couple to say their final good-bye, and I decided, based on the resemblance, that they were the parents of the young woman. There was a final embrace, a promise to speak soon, very soon by telephone, and then the girl went from one set of arms into another--those of the mother. Both stood by the window holding each other and crying as the dad hovered nearby. In vain I repressed my own tears as I handed over my boarding pass. Why is it that I can cry for complete strangers but not over those who are my nearest and dearest? There was something about the tenderness of the parents as they witnessed and shared the daughter’s grief that got to me. Tears continue to trickle down my cheeks seven hours later.
The flight on the Dash 8 to Toronto brought back waves of memories. I’m pretty sure this is the same type of aircraft I often flew during my university days when I was desperate to get to Canada to visit friends—R in particular. As I recall, I could fly standby from Cleveland to Toronto for $50. That put me halfway to Ottawa where he was living and going to school. R and I became experts at saying good-bye during our long-distance, international relationship, although I never once cried. I do remember being forgetful in the headiness of young love. One time I neglected to bring any form of identification, let alone a passport, to the airport. Amazingly, I traveled back and forth to Toronto without it, suffering nothing more than a severe scolding from an Immigration officer in the Toronto airport on the return leg of the journey.
My memories of the Toronto airport itself are more recent. There is the Tim Hortons in the domestic terminal with its perpetually long line of customers—a line that is always too long for our impatient, hungry family of six. There is the lounge at the end of the terminal where we left behind a Kindle three years ago. There is the café that I stormed into last November when I was irrationally annoyed with my husband for not producing food for us to eat the minute we deplaned--hunger has been an all-too-frequent source of conflict while traveling over the years.
The six-hour layover in Toronto has given me ample time to peruse my memories and to absorb the energy flowing in this busy, cosmopolitan space. It is true that during the past twelve months I have often regretted our decision five years ago to uproot the family and relocate overseas. I have repeated to myself that I hate change, and that I wish I could have lived in one place all of my grown-up life, or at least all of it since our kids were born. Recently a friend asked me, “Where, of all the places you have lived, do you most wish you could be?” I answered without thinking that I wished I could live in a place where I had always lived, where our kids had deep roots with both adults and peers who had known them all of their lives. That is a futile wish, I realized, even as I said it.
Now it occurs to me that this is only part of the truth. I also love the prospect of something new. I do not want to imagine a future that does not include airports and airplanes and the anticipation of novel experiences, of becoming acquainted with places, cultures and people previously unknown to me. I am proud to name friends on three different continents, proud of my older daughter for traveling alone to the far side of the world to reconnect with her friends from our Australia life. Yes, there has been pain involved. There will be pain to come. But this interlude in the Toronto airport has assured me it is pain well worth it.
Great post, Christie. Loved all the little details.
Posted by: Shanda | 04/07/2015 at 10:33 PM