While waiting for my plane in Chicago this weekend, my attention was drawn by the couple opposite me. They were notable not for their inactivity, but because they were the only people to stay seated on that particular bench. While I sat in the waiting area, at least four people within about twenty minutes would sit down, realize that the bench was unbalanced, stand up and try to find another seat. I was watching this scenario reinact itself again and again with feelings of amusement and guilt. Amusement because I myself had sat down thirty mintues earlier, found the bench to be unstable, and moved across the aisle to more stable seating. Guilt because I had a perfectly good seat next to me, but because of the "personal space" taboo, no one would sit right there, even in a crowded terminal (and I wouldn't have wanted them to, either.)
While I wait to board, I am struck by this couple's sympathetic placement. They lean towards each other, comfortable in each other's personal space. They are still. They are wearied, as they did not move from the unsteady seats. They are contained and do not need to interact with the other waiting passengers. They spoke very little once seated, and then the woman read while the man napped.
There is so much about travel that is monotonous. There is so much that is painful. To get from one place to another can be rewarding, but for most of us, especially those of us who make trips frequently, it is draining. To keep our energy from escaping during the moving about, we usually tend to wrap ourselves up mentally and emotionally, if not physically as well. And the more mundane the journey, whether for work or simply a familiar trip, the more we shield ourselves from the needs of other passengers, the wants of our neighbors, the worries of people other than ourselves.
I've traveled this route numerous times - Kansas City > Chicago > Indianapolis and reversed. I've flown into or out of the Indianapolis Airport hundreds of times, on vacation, for school trips, for work, coming home for the holidays. IIA is my home airport, the airport where everything is familiar and the routes are predetermined. This is an airport I
know. And though I had been told the airport had moved, that is was new and spacial, my mind hadn't adjusted itself to this fact. As far as my mind was concerned, I was flying into the same airport as I had left in months before.
When I stepped out of the gangway, I felt as though I was misplaced. Which boggled my mind, as I was in Indianapolis, not at Midway, not Schipol, not Luton or Gatwick. I've walked into unfamiliar places before, but never when going home. I had to follow signs to find my way to baggage claim. I felt overwhelmed and confused. I don't usually feel this way in airports. I know that drill - baggage claim, car rental (or metro system, depending), hotel, etc. But this was so big, so white, so unexpected. It was clean and new, shiny, decorated. There was miles of corridor. Roped off areas for security. The baggage claim area was huge. The ticket offices immense. Food court and arrivals area magnificant. So different from my memories. It seemed galactic.
With all the events and chaos of the holiday, it seemed like a moment and I am back at the airport. Though I am prepared for it, the huge glowing white mass on the horizon seems out of place for central Indiana. The return flights were, as most flights are, uneventful. I was struck, however, by differing vibes of my two legs of my journey. The first leg was full of children (both happy and sad) and they conversed (and cried and sang and fought) without considering their volume in a crowded, cramped interior. The adults, to be fair, were fairly chatty as well. The second leg, later in the evening, was delightfully somber. Delightful in that I was ill, I was tired, and I wanted to be home. Somber was what I wanted. Delightfully somber worked until we started our descent, that final, final part of the journey, and my congested head decided to explode. I am fortunate to not often feel pain, but when I feel the pressure in my inner ear I regret ever getting on a plane. That is when travel is no longer an adventure, but an agony to be endured until I am safely home.
That maybe one of the aspects of travel I enjoy most. The going and the seeing and the thousand small, every day adventures are why I leave. But the stories and the memories and the thousand small, everyday comforts are why I come back. I travel because I love to come home.
Earlier this month, a typical frigid and uninspiring January day, I was walking across one of the large lawns that are ubiqitous of college campuses, when I spied, amidst the dead grasses and fallen leaves, a lone dandelion. We had had one brief warm day, somewhere in the mid fifties, and that was enough for this little guy to show his face.
Since I've been without the funds or time to do much exotic traveling lately, I have indulged my wanderlust with travelogues (which in my extensive research I have found that travel writing is not synonomous with travelogues. I will continue to misuse that word, regardless.). They take me places I want to go when I don't have time or money, places I don't want to go, places I've never heard of, places that might not exist anymore, even some places so foriegn to my worldview that they seem like make believe tales.
