I love airports. Not the actual airports, really; most are to travel what hospitals are to life- dark, dank, soul-sucking warehouses designed to grind weary travelers into dust. What I love is the opportunity airports present for people watching. If you sit virtually anywhere in London’s Heathrow Airport, for instance, you can almost literally watch the entire world walk by while you’re waiting for your flight. That sort of thing fascinates me, and it sets my imagination in motion.
Being a writer, I find it easy to think about the people I see. I wonder what their stories are and where their lives will leading. What’s their destination? Someplace fun they’ve been eagerly anticipating, like New York or Tokyo? A business trip they’re dreading because they’ve done it countless times before, like Poughkeepsie or Tulsa? What awaits them when they arrive at their destination? A loved one they’ve missed? A client who views them as a means to an end? Or perhaps they arrive only to be greeted by no one, schlepping their bags to pick up a rental car in the dead of night, tired and in need of a drink?
Of course, what I see is purely fictional and informed by my experiences and prejudices. When I let my mind wander, it sometimes takes me to places I don’t really want to go, but sometimes the fun lies in watching people in transit and wondering. Who are they? What do they do? What are they excited about? What do they fear? Are they someone’s sibling? Spouse? Lover? Or are they completely alone in the world, with no one to share their joys and sorrows with but a cat and a television?
Yesterday morning, as I lingered over a cup of coffee and a marionberry empanada, I watched a couple seated a few tables away. He was White and middle-aged, she was Asian- Filipino, perhaps- and appeared to be younger. I found myself pondering their story, rolling over the possibilities in my mind. She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, and he smiled wanly. I looked at them and wondered: a mail order bride? A May-December marriage? Or were they just a couple looking forward to a second honeymoon and rekindling the flame that had dimmed over the years?
She seemed happy, he somewhat less so. Perhaps it was fatigue or travel weariness over the idea of another long trip to a far-off land, where they’d drink bad beer, eat strange food, and ward of hordes of rabid mosquitoes, when what he really wanted was a microbrew, a steak, and a baseball game.
As I pondered the possibilities of their story, my gaze wandered, settling on others as they meandered through my field of vision. The tall, slender, very attractive woman trying to gracefully carry too much food and coffee back to a table where a man waited, his face glued to the screen of his laptop. She looked vaguely annoyed about doing the heavy lifting as he was checking his Facebook page.
There was the man dragging his rolling suitcase along, his back hunched from fatigue, a plastic bag advertising Dubai’s duty-free shop clutched in one hand. He looked as if he’d had a very long, exhausting trip and wished for nothing in the world more than to collapse into a set of 600-thread-count sheets in the plush room he’d reserved at the Heathman Hotel in downtown Portland. He shuffled slowly through the crowd, perhaps knowing he was near his destination, or that if he could just make it to baggage claim, someone would meet him and whisk him away to a scotch on the rocks and blissful slumber.
Then there was the woman-short hair, mid-50s, a few extra pounds- dragging her rolling suitcase behind her as if it was a recalcitrant child she fervently wished she could beat into submission. She was leaving a French restaurant near my table as her gaze met mine. Her weary eyes told a tale of someone wanting to be where she was going, but apprehensive about the process of getting there. A nervous flyer? Or maybe she’d left her husband of 30+ years and was striking out on her own? Perhaps she was terrified of what she might discover when she reached her destination and realized it was only her, starting over at a time when most women her age were doting over their grandchildren. She looked scared and lonely…and not at all certain about what they future held.
Sometimes I wish I could talk to the people I see, but it would ruin the stories I invent about them. Rarely does life imitate art, so I have a feeling the realities of their lives wouldn’t be nearly as interesting or compelling as the stories I’ve conferred upon them. I used to travel on business frequently, and to liven things up, I’d strike up conversations with a seatmate or stewardesses. I’d make up an identity for myself, knowing I’d likely never see the person I was speaking with again. My life didn’t feel very interesting, so I’d become whatever I wanted to be for the few hours we were together. Once I was a career minor league baseball player who’d just retired and was looking to disappear to a place I could while away the next few months fly fishing. Another time I was the chief of staff for a U.S. Senator, and there were a few other made up identities I’ve long since forgotten. It made a trip I didn’t want to be taking a bit more interesting, and at least for a short time I felt interesting and mysterious.
We all have a story, the nature of which is that facts and fiction can become intermingled. Sometimes the best ones really are those in which the main characters never recognize they’re playing a part in my personal tale.
