Airports are a great place to think. To ponder the intricacies of life. I was in an airport this weekend and I'm slowly finding comfort in the way my life has transitioned into solitude. It's a change that has brought me from sadness and self-pity to new found acceptance and sense of freedom.
This self reality check occurred to me this weekend as I traveled to the Garden State for a meeting. Me and airports don't really mix. My flight out was delayed and then stuck on the runway. While waiting at the airport, I discovered that my lodging plans were altered yet again forcing me to simple seek commercial accommodations. I HATE WHEN TRAVEL PLANS CHANGE.
I get to Jersey and find that the cheapest place to stay is an Econolodge that is located on a weird strip past all the "good" hotels, behind a truck (18 wheeler) facility. Nice. My room is all the way in the back, where I have to walk through what looks like rape alley and the parking lot to get to. Most of the lights don't work in the room and the remote has old batteries (one generic, one Duracell) in it. It doesn't work, either, but I have TBS.
You get what you pay for. I was tempted to sleep on top of the sheets, thinking that it may slow the bed bugs from accessing me, but when I smelled the sweet scent of bleach on my pillowcases, I knew I would be OK. I slept pretty well, despite being a little hungry.
The whole point of this trip, which was the meeting at Rutgers, is not worth mentioning.
So I find my way back to my motel Saturday afternoon by taking a taxi. My driver was named Jean. He is from Haiti. We talk about the cost of living in my city and how when he came to the states he didn't speak English. I ask him where are all the white people, and he explains in his tinted English the class/racial disparities that divide the area. (Rich, white people are fucked up everywhere.) He wanted to know if I needed a tour guide in the city. Now, because all my plans got screwed up, I really didn't have anyone to meet or accompany me into the city. Whatever. I was feeling slightly adventurous, what with the Econolodge stay and all - I felt practically 3rd world.
However, after fleeting thoughts of casual sex with a Haitian man screaming all things sexual to me in French, I declined...random sex was so freshman year in college (and sophomore and junior). I took a nap and then woke up and watched more TV. It was ironic that I was seeing various shots of NYC on television when I could have walked out on the street and caught glimpses of the actual skyline and the bridge to the city was another cab ride away. Moxie must be the only person in the world unimpressed with NYC. I took refuge in my dinky motel room content with having a weekend off my from second job. NYC is for bitches.
So what would impress me? I was sorta freaked that I couldn't answer that question. Omigod, did I have autism? Nothing excited me. Not even the chance to explore NYC for a day and half.
Sunday morning: After my hopes of getting an earlier flight were dashed, I decided against getting brunch in NYC (or anywhere in Jersey) and headed to Newark. The airport would be more exciting anyway. The shuttle driver, John Cruz, was rambling to the pilot in the shuttle with me and was completely incoherent. I make my way into the airport and once again pursue, at the ticket counter, an earlier flight back home. No luck. So I check in and stroll leisurely to my gate. First, I wait in security for about 25 minutes with what looked a like a group of Swedes. As we snaked our way through the partitions we kept staring back at each other. From where they stood I was some sort of brown looking freak, and I kept wondering how many boys would turn around if I just yelled out the name "Sven".
I make it past security only after this Marine reject working for TSA barks out orders. Repeatedly. To a woman who was clearly from SE Asia. The poor woman, with all her cultural garb, had to be subjected to a body check.
I pass a duty free shop. I have never shopped at one and I still don't really understand their point, but I saw fragrances and liquor and thought there was something in there for me. I sniff and sniff and settle on a scent. As I am paying, the store manager - an African man - notices my tats. He thinks that my jungle queen pin up tat is bonafide Zulu. Yeah, I wish. He asks me if I got it done in NYC and proudly say that some white kid in my hometown did it. Take that. And I still paid sales tax on my purchase.
I glide out, my head high off of pretty smells and pass a stand advertising this. Genius.
I opt for fast food since I just blew stupid money on a bottle of cologne. Then I shuffle over to a bookstore to find something cheap and fictional. All the mags looked disinteresting, so I settled for this book. Cute, but I can't believe I paid for it. Will finish it while sitting in a bubble bath...
I sit in an airport coffee shop and read. I watch planes out of the window. Strangely content in my solitude amongst thousands of strangers hustling and bustling to and from. I remember sitting in this same coffee shop at a different time, returning home from heaven-knows-where and I felt immensely sad looking at all the families and couples. The business travelers on their phones telling someone on the other end that they would be home soon. This time, all that was the same, but I felt oddly content with the decisions I made over the trip, staying in my little shell. Happy that I had to lug all my shit with me if I had to go to the bathroom, because there was no boyfriend there to watch it for me. That every costs I incurred were my own. That I had to rely on books and magazines and CDs to entertain me. That I had to keep little notes about things that I observed because there was no one to share it with. I was ok being one of the few people who had no one to call when the plane landed.
As I listened to the announcements for flights this city in that country would be boarding soon, I realized that cities far, far away would impress me. I would get lost in Dubai. I would explore the shops of Johannesburg. Or get excited to stand in line for customs at Heathrow. I want to be that person in security holding a passport, going places unknown. NYC, Chicago, Miami, D.C are all cities you can see everyday on TV, filled with people who you can find anywhere. They're overrated. And expensive. Overcrowed. Not that cities elsewhere aren't, but there's something about leaving your comfort zone. On my way in on Friday, when the plane was delayed, a woman behind me lamented that she would miss her connecting flight...to Rome, Italy. I felt bad for her, but at the same time I was jealous. How exciting that must be to have to rush across the moving sidewalks in an attempt to catch your elusive international flight.
My return flight was overcrowded and delayed on the runway. The airline offered a $700 travel voucher plus food and hotel for the night to people who would give up their seats. And after all my jealous glances towards people with their passports, I didn't give up my seat to get $700 towards the trip of my dreams. I'm still hate when my travel plans change. *sigh*
I make it home as scheduled somehow and I take a cab home. My driver, whose name starts with a B, but I can't spell, is from Somalia. We talk about Africa and where he is from. The language he speaks and the god he worships. He reminds which European countries colonized his country. He has 13 sisters and 20 brothers. Yes. He tells me to get my passport already. Do it and go. Great advice from a cabbie.
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