The Airport

I love sitting in the airport. So many people, some busy, some relaxed. The lady across from me sits balancing her checkbook while her husband stares thoughtfully at the sport's section of the Salt Lake Tribune. There is your typical semi-spoiled looking girl with the north face jacket and pink bag. A man in a business suit sits reading a book about trade and finance.

An elderly missionary couple sits together as the wife rubs the husband's sore shoulders. They are on my same flight, and are now explaining why they're headed to Oregon. It really is fascinating. I am leaving on a mission soon myself, but the way their mission is, they are allowed to leave their mission for special occasions. In this case, that is the baptism of their grandson.

My legs start to hurt from sitting in the same position for so long so I readjust right as the child sitting behind me starts to cry. Her mom calms her and I look up. Apparently the sports section wasn't interesting enough. Now the man from the couple is getting out his Ipod and fiddling with it. I wonder what he's listening to? I wonder what kind of man he is. Where is he from, where is he going? I'll never know and they'll never know where I'm going either. The airport is a secret, We're all here to do one thing: Travel.

But why are we traveling. For me I'm going home for the last time before I go on a mission to Hong Kong. For another perhaps a vacation. Another may have lost a loved one and is going to attend a funeral.

An elderly man just rolled up in a strange looking blue wheelchair. A long thin clear cord attaches him to his lifeline: oxygen. As his wife sits next to him she laughs and talks brightly, all while holding the tube and readjusting the pad in her right shoulder. Now she picks up a newspaper and begins to read. I suppose the newspaper isn't really dead. At the airport it seems alive.

Real sound doesn't exist in the airport. You can't hear what is being said, just the saying of it. The only thing distinguishable is the sound of the lady at the desk, announcing the comings and goings of the various flights. One just arrived from Colorado or something. I wasn't really listening. I'm trying to pick up what the old woman with the shoulderpads and dark eyeglasses is reading to her husband. She stops and turns around, her curiosity peaked by some sounds a nearby jet is making.

I'm not really hungry, but sitting here makes me want to eat. If I left my seat, I would find starbucks, odwalla juices, bottled water, some crummy mexican food, and a decent variety of bagels and sandwiches. I know if I eat anything I'll just feel sick afterwards. I've been in too many airports not to have learned my lesson that you only eat if you are REALLY REALLY hungry. Otherwise the bagel, burrito, or smoothie will sit in your stomach as you sit in the stale air of the plane. It festers and weighs you down until after you arrive at your destination.

the man across from me just pulled up his socks before readjusting his shoelaces. His knee high socks are bright red argyle. Quite a contrast to the tan suede shoes and light pink polo he's decided to sport on this trip.

But not to distract from my point. I am not hungry but I want to eat. I am not tired but I want to sleep. I am me, but part of me doesn't want to be. There is something about the airport that is like an escape. It's magical... I mean, I could go anywhere. I could be from anywhere. But as soon as I land I touch back down to reality where I no longer can make up stories about the peoples' lives I invade through observation.