The thrill of travel is a tingling on the skin and the verge of a smile. A silent challenge issued to every passer-by: “Ask me how I’m feeling, I dare you.”
A chipper security guard accepts my challenge, clearly naïve of her inevitable defeat:
“How are you today?” She’s asking for it.
“I’m doing great, thanks.” BAM. Take that. And to gracefully refrain from grinding her to a faceless pulp with my superior circumstances, a conciliatory gesture: “How are you?”
“I’m fantastic! Living the TSA dream.” …except it isn’t said with a scathing tinge of bitterness. Unbelievably, she seems perfectly content, even happy. What strange turn is this? A week in Vegas thwarted by a day on the job? Perhaps it would be better for me to just go home.
But finally she concedes, “Excited to get out of town?”
Yes! Redemption: “I’m so excited.”
“Alright, don’t party too hard.” Even when you’re going to Las Vegas for an internship with Teach for America, everyone still assumes you’re going for the party.
So many passing faces. First glances are moments of recognition that evaporate before you can scoop them up: A long lost coworker, a distant relative, Judi Dench. Second glances are always anonymous. The two boisterous men behind me in Cincinnati jackets chortling as they exchange garbled jargon about sports odds and speculate as to whether a Dave and Buster’s card is an acceptable form of state-issued ID? No one I know.
And somehow when you travel alone you’re accompanied by everyone you’ve ever traveled with, and a few you’ve only imagined.
Why does a trip to the airport inevitably recall every trip I’ve made to the airport? Here I’m getting lost on another layover walk led by my dad who so confidently doesn’t know where he’s going. Here I’ve just turned a corner in Heathrow and spotted a dear friend and her fantastic purple jeans. Here I’m nervous I won’t make it through Sicilian airport security (silly thing to worry about). In homage to my father, I calmly wait in the terminal after everyone else has scurried to the gate to finish my orange and jot a few notes as the line subsides.
Look, airplanes!
Look, I took a picture of my feet!
Look, it’s Phoenix!
Man, I used to love these things back when I was convinced every plane ride was fated to crash in the ocean and I’d have to debate between my seat cushion and the inflatable life vest for a flotation device!
Sometimes I suspect that the only difference between writers and regular people is that writers are convinced that every mundane detail in their lives that a regular person wouldn’t bother writing down is fantastically interesting and they’re determined to get you to listen. Or maybe that’s just me.
"Sometimes I suspect that the only difference between writers and regular people is that writers are convinced that every mundane detail in their lives that a regular person wouldn’t bother writing down is fantastically interesting and they’re determined to get you to listen"
ReplyDeleteXD hahahaha