airport friends

August 17, 2015

Greetings from the door ajar,

There have been weeks when I have thought: ‘All my friends are in airports’. If I was going to write a country song, I might start there.  But it is not meant to be a bleak comment.  I have learned that there are friends in a variety of depths, and some of them I only know for an hour.

I love traveling, even on business, because there is a certain energy in the process that is invigorating, sometimes challenging, always full of interesting experiences.  But more important, there is an opportunity to meet people in a unique way.

In spite of the hassle and hustle that is associated with traveling through airports, there is a strange intimacy among the people there.  There is sometimes the ‘survivor’ mentality that bonds you with your fellow travelers when a flight is cancelled or when you land in Chicago and everyone has to get to a tight connection, and you find yourself cheering for the couple trying to get to D16 to make it to Orlando for their honeymoon cruise.

Some days I watch people moving through the airport and I try to imagine what their path is, or I create a story to match to them.  As creative as my imagination is, the real stories are usually more colorful.  Woman traveling alone with three kids.  Soldier carrying a guitar.  Man holding his clothes wrapped in a cloth.  Couple sleeping on the floor behind the gate check.

And then there was this.

I was standing in line at Starbucks, not an uncommon activity for me, in a bit of a travel fog, hoping that there was a better day on the other side of the cup of coffee.

The man ahead of me was older, maybe in his late sixties.  I could tell he was lean, the back of his neck was tanned.  I made some assumptions; Farmer?  Athlete?  Coach?  I started forming a story in my head about a cross country coach who trained his team in a corn field, picking ears off the stalks as they ran by.

I found myself staring at the back of his shirt, not really focused, until I realized it was the shape of Iowa.  I read the phrase ‘RAGBRAI’,  a bicycle tour across the state that someone told me about.  That was enough for me to make a new friend.

“Excuse me,” I said and the man turned to look at me, “I couldn’t help noticing..”

There was a flash across the man’s eyes, and for a second I regretted saying anything.

“…couldn’t help noticing your shirt.”

The man looked at me for a long moment, and then his face relaxed and a smile split his face.  I saw his eyes light up.  I know when I have found someone with a passion.

“Ride across Iowa.” He said.  “It’s my sixth year in a row.”

Six years in a row.  He is a determined guy.

“I have a friend who has done it for years.” I said  “Not sure if he’s going this year though.”  I mentioned Paul’s name to him, thinking about what a small world it was.  Not that small I guess, he didn’t recognize the name.

 “Maybe I’ll meet him this year.” The man said.  “It starts tomorrow.”

He described the huge crowds, and how the tour transforms the countryside they pass through.

“We turn small towns into small cities overnight.”  He laughed.

A guy this age, I thought, still looking for adventure.  That’s encouraging.

We chatted for a few minutes more but he had a plane to catch and I had a date with caffeine.

As I took my coffee from the barista, I glanced down the concourse after the man, his pack over his shoulder, walking toward his gate.  It was then I noticed he was wearing shorts. 

And that he had no legs.

That’s not exactly right; he was missing his real legs from about the knees down.  His story split into a prism of possibilities in my mind.  I watched him line up to board his plane and wished I had started the conversation an hour earlier.  Or the day before.

He walked with a grace that told me he’d had the prosthetics for a while.  He was traveling toward an adventure, and not age or aches or excuses or missing limbs was keeping him from making the trip.  I stood watching him, getting to know him as he walked away.

It is little vignettes like this that makes travel interesting.  Moments when people crack the door of their lives for an instant, and I can see a sliver of how they live, hear a fraction of what they care about, see how their lives connect with mine. 

Of course all my friends are not in airports, and all the stories to be known are not from people I meet for ten minutes.  My life is full of doors; some open, some closed, some cracked, some swinging in the wind.  It is up to me to stop and knock.

Hope this finds you making friends,

David