Friday, December 30, 2005

carrying-on. I love airports. I haven't flown too much -- mostly puddle jumps and interprovincial flights -- but as soon as I walk through those automatic sliding doors, I feel like anything could happen. I could hop a flight to Cuba, or meet a long-lost beloved stepping off a plane. I could rendezvous with a spy to receive my mission orders en route to Kiev, or grab a cup of coffee next to a Vuitton-schlepping celeb. Or I could just be there to pick up my roommate and her boyfriend, home from an Ontario Christmas. The sheer energy of possibility is alive and well in every terminal of the Vancouver International Airport. And in me. I have a million places I want to see before this lifetime is over... at least 31 countries in the next 31 years, as I promised myself on my last birthday. I'm not even sure which 31 I'll choose, or if I'll stop there. How cool is it that I have yet to discover where my heart lies? But -- regardless of what stamps end up decorating my passport -- one of my favourite places to be will always be the place before those places; I love to watch the families meet with tears and awkwardness and back-slapping hugs; to dodge bags full of the unknown breezing past on wobbly-wheeled carts; to stare at the flickering frescoes of destinations, delays, and flight numbers bearing both blessing and curse; and to breathe in recycled air from a hundred different cities exhaled by jet-lagged, travel-worn, and story-filled masses. I have my own airport memories, too. I can remember coming home from university, exhausted after Christmas exams, and having 30-odd friends meet me at the gate with signs, hugs, and a volley of cheers. I cried with joy, as well as with the knowledge that I would not be going straight home to bed, as planned. I can remember meeting my dear friend's brand-new baby for the first time at an arrivals gate, pink, prune-faced, and perfect. I can remember busking -- playing the spoons and a bongo, respectively -- with a friend behind a sign that read, "Cleveland or Bust." We made $10. I can remember seeing off a group of teenagers to Costa Rica for a house-building project, knowing full well that some of them would probably try to hold their hammers by the wrong end. I can remember seeing engagement rings for the first time on the outstretched hands of friends who'd said their yesses while away on vacation. I can remember having an awkward moment with airport security involving an underwire bra and an oversensitive scanner. I can remember singing Turn, Turn, Turn as I rode, cross-legged and flushed with delight, on a luggage carousel. I can remember my brother, striding towards me in an Army uniform, skinnier and more hairless than I'd ever seen him before. I can remember my dad meeting me with flowers and lattes and a crinkly smile. And my mom with outside-chilled kisses. I can remember watching someone I loved leaving through blurry eyes until he was a dot on the horizon, standing limply at the security gate where family and friends had to let go. I can remember being the one walking away. But my memories engage me less than my future. I dream of Nairobi and Prague and Havana and Kingston and Cambridge and Belfast and New York and New Orleans and Reykjavik and Brisbane. I dream of mile-long beaches and ice caves and jungle sounds and desert sunsets. I dream of hours and hours sitting between a guy who sells insurance and a woman who clears her throat every 8.5 seconds. There's a whole world as yet unMegged in which to injure myself. My friends might scoff at this expression of fervent wanderlust. After all, they are seasoned travellers and have been most of the places -- if you took all their trips, rolled them all up into a ball, and formed some sort of ubertravelogue -- that I desire to go. They know I've not actually been much further than North Dakota to the East and Oregon to the South and Alaska to the North. That, and I've not made departure-friendly choices over the years, given my proclivity towards, well.... sticking around. I don't even have a really great backpack. But it's there -- the curiosity, the goggle-eyed hope, all of it. I just need to get to the airport more often. 12:54:01 AM    well, yes, but...  []

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