Airport Musings

A new story by Tina Grimberg

I have always been fascinated with places where the doors are never locked and the lights never turned off. Like a 24-hour diner on the edge of some midwestern city, where truck drivers stop to have coffee, or a bowl of chili, or to flirt with a waitress. 

Airports, all over the world, are places where doors are open and lights are on every day of the year.

My journey begins before I leave for the airport. Planning for an upcoming trip is a source of excitement and anxiety. One must pack for every trip, no matter how insignificant it might be.

Packing is a terrifying word for most of my female friends. How can one place an entire life in a suitcase? It requires a great deal of faith:. “I will have what I need…” It sounds like a religious statement. And with it, another statement — “Live in the moment and stay present”— flies out the window (pardon the pun) as soon as I approach my closet.

My spiritual longing disappears under the weight of the task at hand. My bed is strewn with things I need, things I might need but am not sure about, and things I want to take but do not need. The act of choosing is brutal. What if I leave behind something I might need? What if I overpack and pull along a suitcase way too big for a woman of my modest size, and am perceived as overly materialistic…

Saying goodbye—so warmly—embracing for a photo, lifting the suitcases out of the car, that lost art of gallantry. Hoping for a speedy, safe return. Sometimes an exhale. The need for space is real, for those who depart and those who drive away.

Security is a loaded word at the airport. On its own it is a positive concept. As infants, we are desperately in need of it. As lovers, we are challenged by it as we face the opposing forces of both two needs: the comfort of safety and the pull of excitement and instability.

Into the dark place my most beloved possessions are floating away. The ones I care most about stay in my carry-on: phone with photos, computer with my writings, medicine, my book, a scarf, my lipstick. We line up and declare that we have no secrets. We declare our vulnerability when we remove our shoes and raise our arms. I try to recall a dance class when my teacher adjusted my arms and posture to resemble grace, as the glass tube scans us under the gaze of a security officer. More likely, we look like potential criminals with our arms in the air, charged with a crime. We are all guilty of something.

But customs is my favourite part of travel. In the airport, one can be standing on the soil of one country while only a few paces away, just past the customs officer’s booth, lies another culture, law, order, and set of traditions lies in wait. History. I wonder—when the cleaning crew arrives and must mop the floor, do they have to move some of this sparse furniture? What happens to the border between two countries? Does it disappear? One space may blend into the next, reminding us that the lines separating people and countries are often invisible, imposed.

I have a confession to make. I love approaching customs officers. Few people in this modern day make eye contact. Most of us look away or stare at our phones. While the moment of interlocked gazes is brief is brief, the customs officer’s interest in you is most profound. Your life history appears on their. At times their questions are almost caring: “Where’s your father?” one asked my 13-year-old son after his father’s death. My son looked at me and asked: “Would you like to explain this?” The officer’s eyes softened,. “Sorry to hear this, ma’am. Have a good trip.”

In our daily lives, we may lack direction. But nobody goes to the airport without a purpose or a destination. Aimlessness and meandering are not possible.

At the gate, a crowd of travellers lines up to board the plane. Among them are a couple of young lovers, a student going home for a break, a businessman, a family with four golden-haired children and a couple in their seventies. My eyes rest on the older couple. They hold hands, only letting go when the coat slides from her right shoulder. Gently, the man adjusts his wife’s coat. The woman turns towards him and rests her forehead against her husband's chin. Their eyes are closed. For a moment, all three of us are still. 

Flying above the earth can help you see the big picture big picture of your life, or a problem you are trying to address. You can also be allowed to dream unrealistic dreams; after all, you are among the clouds. You also lose control. You have no way to direct or influence the journey on the airplane. You are in the hands of an invisible driver and air traffic controller.

It is a place to let go. This journey is truly out of your control. Once, I flew to Israel through Turkey, and as a light in the airplane was turned on for the takeoff, my tears began to fall. A few months before, I had lost my mother. Strength and competency were my answers to my emotional upheaval.

But when the light went off and the engines spun, I came undone.

Next to me, a young man was drinking steadily—every time the flight attendant came around, he would order several drinks at once.

Next to me a young man ordered drink after drink. By the time he addressed me, my neighbour was tipsy. His accent sounded eastern European. “I am sorry, but you seem upset, can I do something for you?”

I was surprised that in his state he was able to notice my quiet distress.

I thanked him for his kindness. A conversation unfolded. He was a roofer, which and that explained the scars on his hands and his head. He was travelling to Siberia to see his mother and had a layover in Istanbul. When he found out that I was a rabbi, he was surprised and regretfully admitted that he did not know how to pray even if he wanted to.

“You do know how. You asked me if I needed help. Offering someone help is a form of prayer,” I replied. At this point the man began to cry. “I miss my mother. I feel guilty leaving her in Siberia to age without me… Tthen my girlfriend left me. My home is dark now, empty.”

These small and yet significant exchanges in the time capsule above the ocean allow us a moment of transformation. Upon landing, the lights went on in the cabin, but and the magic was gone. My neighbour disappeared into a departing crowd. 

Arrival is fascinating. We often complain about how other people carry memories, experiences, and opinions that damage relationships. Therapists call it “baggage,” and—surprise—we all have our own. We would not mind dropping it or losing it someplace. However, at the airport, if our baggage doesn’t show up in baggage claim, we are terribly upset and complain bitterly. When our family meets us upon arrival, they accept us with a kiss, an embrace. Maybe even flowers— not seeing (or pretending not to see) that we return to them transformed, carrying our stuff, and ourselves back to them.