Runaway Runway

Let's get talking about bright sun-shiny days and saltwater fish. The warmth of that association is enough to make even the most frigid of ice queens thaw out a smile. I was in Cuba for a week, about a week ago. I'm well aware that the hypocrisy in that venture merits a series of blogposts but I have chosen to tackle a happy topic here and not dwell on the inconsistencies of human nature. Although the trip itself provided me with many things I could comment on, it's a thought that only struck me yesterday that really got me thinking. I'd like to think it was spurred on by my recent return to a place of inconspicuous intermingling between ultimate happiness and infinite pain -- the airport.

I randomly pictured going to the airport one day--a day when I am irreperably bored--and just standing at the gates of the arrivals and watching the people for a few hours. Although this makes me sound rather more like a creeper than the innocent and harmless daydreamer that I so desperately pose to be, I urge you to follow along in my reasoning. The airport seems to be quite straight forward. It is none other than a massive series of buildings encircled by a spaghetti bowl of tangled asphalt. We go there for a limited variety of reasons: We are either employed by one of the companies that are situated there or we are somehow related to an act of travel. We could, in fact, be the travellers -- leaving or returning from a place far enough that driving seems out of the question. We could, instead, be assisting a traveller by being their chauffeur for the day. The latter role is what interests me. Are you aware that upon accepting this responsibility - that of being the last familiar face the traveller sees before embarking on their adventure - we are the bridge between home and the unknown for that person? Have you ever given thought to how important you are for the person who is departing? And likewise I urge you to consider what your face means to the person who is arriving. You are symbolic. You are the first real sign of home, of comfort, of love and care for the returning explorer. Your job is much more important than that of simply being a chauffeur.

Allow me to elaborate through a spontaneous narrative of a typical scenario in front of the gates of arrival in any given airport, on any given day, at any given time. As you read, slow down and take the time to visualize and understand what each word means to you, the emotions it conveys, and the way you are affected by it through your own memories and characteristics.

An airport terminal is like a beehive for emotions and feelings -- constantly buzzing with activity and saturated with the very essence of life for those who interact with it. The airport houses the anticipation, the shock, the anxiety, the regret, the relief, the love, the jealousy, the surprise, the tears, the sweat, the exotic smells, the repulsive odours, the tans, the burns, the new clothing, the bright colours, the bags, the smiles, the frowns, the worries, the confusion, the voices, the moans, the whispers, the thoughts.... how many thoughts? what kind of thoughts? expectations? wonder? amazement? longing... longing for a person, longing for a home, for a pillow, for good food, for friendship, for comfort, for the next vacation, for what they lost on this one.

There is something revealing about watching a person who is waiting for an arrival at the airport. A man waits, emotionless, quiet. His eyes glimmer with the essence of one who is in expectation, although it is impossible to tell if he is worried, calm, or hiding something more explosive. Interesting interpretation of an emotion, I tell myself, seeing that we are dealing with an airport during terrorist times. The man waits, and waits. He paces back and forth but ultimately settles in his rightful (and infinitely temporary) place, leaning against a large semi-decorative pole that supports the entire structure. His arms are crossed, he fidgets. The doors flutter open again and again, but those who come through mean nothing to the man. He waits.

Beside the man there is a child playing with a toy airplane. The toy was likely handed down over at least a couple of generations. Several stickers have peeled off the surface and the silver paintjob looks more like a few splatters of silver paint on dull grey plastic. The wear of time has reduced it so. The child makes jet engine noises, or at least what he thinks they should sound like. "GUSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH...........VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVUUUUUUU" He steps six steps right but eight left; he makes little progress. As he tinkers innocently he enters the subconscious imagination of all the adults in his vicinity. There is some tender annoyance with the child but no one addresses it except his painfully agitated mother, whom experiences a boatload of heart palpitations during times of extreme stress and does not deal well with anxiety. Her blue eyes, unlike the man's, are wide, bright, and glossy. They are full of worry, of hope, of expired patience - they are contrasted with a poorly done make-up job, which intended to use eye shadow to help bring out her eyes, but instead serve to make her entire face seem puffy and tired. She scolds the child in order to distract herself, but does do distractedly and decidedly ineffectively. The child senses her half-hearted concern for public peace and continues to fly his jet through the clouds of time.

The man coughs, the woman looks up at him. She doesn't care that he coughed. She is bored. Worried and bored. Not a good combination as she senses her heart beating at a semi-irregular pace. She waits.

Like the man, the woman, and the child, there are 226 people waiting for arrivals at any given time in this stretch of my imagination, in this fictional terminal, in this temporary image of a reality taken for granted. As each arrival comes through the door, a heart skips a beat, a smile is inevitable, a relief is reached, an agitation is calmed, a story has begun where another one has ended. The power we all have is immense when we open those doors and walk through the gates to come home; to go away.

The airport is not a port of travel, it is a theatre of emotion. A place we go to feel, to be felt. To smile, to laugh. The airport is a runway for the runaway heart. If you have never travelled, if you have never gone to greet an arriving traveller, you have missed out on a significant part of your emotional self. This, I argue, is a large part of the beauty of going on vacation and should never be taken for granted.