The Airport: a Romance

I've always disliked flying, but I've always loved everything surrounding it; namely airports.

I remember that surreal feeling, being at the airport, knowing that it was coming. My moment to get on the plane, pursue my dream, go to the city I've longed to see for years. It was such an abstract idea. It felt like a line I'd been rehearsing for a play til now. I packed six month's worth of my life into three whole bags, only two of which actually counted as the kind of bags for traveling: the biggest rolling suitcase you've ever seen in your life and the packing backpack I'd live out of for two of those months. Carefully packed...or so I thought.

I remember the fear striking as I checked in for my flight, and my giant rolling suitcase was something nasty like six pounds over the limit. Instantly anxiety-drowned, I angrily pulled my suitcase to the side of the counter, and knelt down to tear things out of it. I laugh now to think that I actually believed the minutes would count. Shampoo would have to be purchased there. I could live without peanut butter. Back down just enough weight to move this whole process forward. Off to a great start.

The security line was ages long, so then it was time for goodbyes. It was maybe stupid of me to have a whole hoard of people see me off...but I'd secretly wished even more of them were there. The important ones, you know. I hugged everyone several times, I don't remember many specifics, it's mostly only a blur of tears. However I can still feel the ache of knowing I wouldn't see them all for six months. One of the more bittersweet moments of my life.

I stood in the weaving line of fellow travelers, a weeping mess, wiping my nose on my sleeve; sniffling. People around me stared. It felt like I was at a funeral and I was the only one who actually cared. Finally I had to tell my family to just leave, because the sight of them only made me continue to cry. I knew that once I was through security, and I was stuck in this...I'd be fine.

Flash forward to Charles de Gaulle. Landing there felt all too like a sham. Sure they told us over the intercom we were in Paris...but surely it was a hoax. Also, when you get off the plane it looks nothing like you imagine, so even more so you could be in Russia for all you know. The exit leads you immediately down a flight of stairs, right onto the runway. Great. This is how they do it here?

I was already wimpy at using my french, when a traffic control guy, maybe even younger than me babbled something at me in french. I couldn't even think of how to respond to pretend as if I'd only not heard him - ignoring my terrible comprehension. I probably blurted something so simple as "Ici?" and pointed at the boxy vehicle packed with people. I reluctantly boarded, and it drove us sardines to the main airport. I remember going to baggage claim. It looked like a joke, and yet it felt like I'd been there before. Once I got my reduced suitcase, I followed the current of people, thankfully that worked as there were little signs. At the exit, I found my pen-pal, Amber Korneliussen for our long awaited real life meeting.

I remember re-packing countless times my last night in Paris. Excited and in disbelief of my supposed return home. They told me that place still existed, home, but I felt like it'd be an over-the-top version of candid camera; even more painful than the original, in which America no longer existed and my family was a figment of my imagination. I packed and re-packed, into the wee hours of the morning, despite needing to wake up...in the wee hours of the morning. It didn't even phase me to think that someday I'd miss Paris. I missed it already, but I missed my family more. My best friends. I slept in the clothes I planned to wear on the plane.

My heart races now to think of it. The feeling's both a bad and a good feeling. It feels kind of like a nervousness combined with an adrenaline, sprinkled with an excitement, and then watered down by an unattainability. I categorize it as an ache because I know that I can't ever have these moments back. I can never live them to the vivid fullness of they first occurred.

That night, I'd parted with my now even dearer Amber, only to see her again whenever the dear Lord should bless us so. My now dear Carrie was accompanying me to the airport. I think I told her we'd pretend like it was nothing til the moment it had to be, or maybe it just happened that way.

(As a dry aside, CDG is far easier to fly into than out of - fyi, plan extra time for being lost and confused.)

Once we finally found my correct line, and Carrie and I said our goodbyes, I did my best attempt not to go into hysterics and change my mind about going home...successfully. It helped that I told her she didn't have to wait while I waited in line. Cut the cord.

Once through all the security, just waiting to board...I went to the Relay. I bought what would be my last pain au chocolat in Paris. I felt a bit melancholy. There was a long journey ahead, and again it was bittersweet - but I didn't think about the bitter. I only saw the daunting task that is spending seemingly endless hours in airports and airplanes until you can feel at ease again, in a place you haven't been for six months...

I sat in a far wing of the Toronto airport, my back in great pain from the combination of the heavy packing backpack that I managed to float by as a carry-on and my side-bag with my laptop in it. I sat for six hours. The first, oh, three seemed to nearly fly by. Partially because I went through customs first. As I stood in that line, I held back tears several times at the thought of returning to my country. I've never been so darn patriotic in my life.

The bits of that last plane ride are more strong in my mind. It was one of the most beautiful things I'd ever seen, the sunset and clouds out the window. It distracted me from the cracker-jack size of our plane. I switched seats to watch it. I grew increasingly excited knowing that these types of plane rides seemed insanely short in comparison to a transatlantic. In a matter of what felt like no time the pilot announced our upcoming descent to Minneapolis. The words brought tears to my eyes.

The clouds were huge and lit-up. I wish I could picture it more accurately in my memory now, but what's stronger is the rest. Just as it'd been when I returned from Denver two summers before, we circled the city as part of our descent. As I laid eyes on that familiar cityscape, I couldn't help myself. I broke into sobs. Lucky for me the surrounding seats were empty, because it was hitting me. There was snot. I don't know if I've ever been so happy to see a single place in my life. My heart stopped - I was taken aback. Home!

Knowing my family was there to receive me, I decided first to stop into the bathroom. I didn't want to have to pee from the moment I saw them til the moment I went to sleep!

I remember the pure exhilaration that hit me as I walked down the empty halls of MSP with the other weary travelers. I thought, "if only they knew how excited I am; that I haven't seen my family in six months and that they were there WAITING for me!" Not that I was walking that fast, but as the reality that I was about to see my family hit me, I started hyperventilating.

I think my favorite part of the MSP airport is that the exit to the baggage terminal is down an escalator. I stood on that escalator, tears welling in my eyes, tapping my foot. As the next level down came into view and I saw that, indeed, familiar faces awaited, a smile broke onto my nervous face. I ran through the sliding doors and as I attacked my sister who was the closest person, I began to cry hysterically. It probably wasn't a pretty moment for me, but I think it will forever be one of the fondest moments of my entire life. It was beautiful.

After subsequently hugging my brother, he told me that my best friend and my cousin were down the other end looking for me. As I walked that way, making their figures out in the distance, I began to jog, then throwing my side-bag (with computer in it) on the ground, yelling "I'm having an epic airport moment!" I ran towards them.

I'd spend six months away, just to have a moment like that again. I felt out of my skin for days; in a dreamland. That return will always be one of my favorite memories of my life. In an airport.

What is next?

I know the difference between when I'm just being a sap, and when it really counts.

There are many things I missed greatly from February to August; family, comforts of the country I know, and even some luxuries, admittedly.

Today, as I was going through my pictures from my trip to SE Asia, I got this figurative warmth in my core. The nostalgia for those moments dawned on me little by little, with each fondly regarded photograph. I thought about so many aspects of my trip that have already begun to be forgotten, - slipping into the ruts of "normal" daily life back home. It felt good to rehash the memories that already feel like so long ago; that already feel like maybe they never really happened. To remember the people we touched, even in the smallest of ways.

Then, perusing facebook, I saw the name of one of my friends from church who recently moved to India. I don't know him so well, so I didn't really know why he moved there. My curiosity sent me to his blog regarding his time there. He's working with International Justice Mission. I read his recent first post about the work they're doing, and I was amazed. And intrigued.

I went to their website, began looking at how does one get involved? A recent post on their site caught my eye: four women were pulled from prostitution and later the brothel owner was arrested. Even beginning to read the article I began to cry. Big tears danced down my face, ones I haven't cried since I first saw a glimpse of my family in the airport. I read further, with descriptions of the brothel's policies and the investigation the crying ceased, overwhelmed by disgust and the brevity of this reality. Then more tears came.

I went back to looking at how to get involved, but I stopped just short. Crying. I couldn't even help myself, it was a slow melancholy sort of thing. I got lost in the idea that there are things like this in the world; organizations setting out and ACTUALLY doing something! Seventeen people were rescued from that owner's brothels.

And this all led me to think...what's next? What is next?

Promise From a Broken Heart

I sort of made a promise to myself (subconsciously I guess) that I'd never have to use the phrase "severed relationship" again, or any variation of words with the same meaning. Not after the only time I'd really ever say I had a broken heart.

But the thing of it is, - the reality is that people seem to slip through our fingers like sand. Set aside those encounters that you know only have their allotted time and no more. Those are pardoned the usual bitterness and sting of relationships lost, and they're looked on with the fondness of nostalgia.

The reality is that no matter what we do, there will always be someone on the going end of coming and going. It's not a pessimistic view, it's just something I'm learning to come to terms with:

You can't always make things work; relationships are not to be forced. And eventually you get tired of doing that, and even if you know what you want, and you know what they need...you can't always orchestrate things.

I'm one of those people who fantasizes about going up to people and saying exactly what I want to and everything I feel; good or bad. But that's not reality. Reality is that someone is always on the going end of coming and going. And sometimes there's nothing you can say or do, just hope they'll come back again.

Occupy a Thought: The Cost of Being Green

I can only blame myself for giving in and reading about Occupy Wall Street. It got my gears turning. The reason I don't like politics, is because it's all a lot of hype, and somehow, someone's always taking it personally. I usually prefer to stay out of it altogether because our system will never be perfect. I think of politics as walking a steady pace up an escalator out of a subway; you're never gonna beat it.

I read part of an article where a protestor was quoted saying that fuel companies can't just use the sky for their carbon emissions.

Pardon my lack of any sort of segway, but here's the problem I find with "green": it too has become, and will further, an industry. Someone will always profit off of green things. I often wonder, do these people think about how much it would affect their lives to completely remove coal as a source of power? Yes, wind power is a wonderful idea, but you know how much a residential wind-harvesting turbine costs? And not just the prices you find for one on ebay. Who's going to pay for that? If there was no coal-burning power plant, the costs of alternative energy - which we all know is more expensive - falls on the little guy. You can't say the government should pay for it, because our debt is already so high. How to balance? Tax more. Hmm...again, the cost is imposed on the people.

(Don't even get me started on celebrities siding with "the little guy", this whole thing could be solved if Oprah put her money where her patriotic mouth is and donated her dog's inheritance to the US government)

And yet, here there are thousands of people complaining - ahem, protesting about how unfair current financial situations are.

I can practically guarantee if any new restrictions or regulations were put in place regarding home electricity standards and usage, it would become an industry. It will begin to cost more and more, increasing the load on already tired backs. Sure, it's nice in theory, but what's the reality?

The reality is, the guy who invented the electric car, was too lazy to bike and wanted to be a millionaire. He (or she) is sitting on a nice pile of money that grows more and more each time someone "invests" in a Prius. And even then, they're only gasoline-electric.

Political and socioeconomic systems are just that...a system. There is so much 'fight the system' mentality that I don't think people realize we're only on track to burn out. Mass incoherent protests aren't really going to do anything except make chatter. If that's what they want, fine. But I hope they're not fooling themselves into thinking they're changing anything. They're only heating up the dialogue, if you will. Stirring the pot; making noise. They are only making noise.

And for the rest of us, (though in part I may or may not agree with some of the sentiments, and yes I recycle) we go on with life. We get in our cheap high-emission car and go to our entry-level job at that giant corporation because it pays our electric bill and puts the macaroni and cheese on the table, leaving a tiny fraction to go in what will someday be an itty-bitty college fund for one of our four kids.

The reality is, it will never be perfect. And so some of us, go on living, doing our best to do what we can.

When I Say "Paris"

I can't even help it, every time I miss someone from or something about Paris, I cry. (There should be an understanding that when I say "Paris" I mean my whole experience with YWAM.) I haven't really bothered to attempt to mask it, not that I really do that with emotions anyway...it just needs to be out there. It just rises up from this little spot in the bottom of my tummy; the recesses of what I have taken in (figuratively, of course) the last 8 months, now.

I just passed my two-month mark back at home. I was too busy to remember on the actual day. I've been swimming in busyness. Yes, I spelled that right.

It's weird to actually experience return culture shock. Of course we learned about it, and long before I ever left, people told me about it. Now I live it.

But it's not even really about missing the places, as much as the people and the life style. At least five out of my seven days were devoted to learning about and serving God. At any given time I had access to at least 22 people that could (and probably would, gladly,) pray for me. I gained more best friends, only to have them scattered all over the U.S. and the world! And every time I miss them, the tears set in because I'm scared that I'll never get to see them again.

And I just have to acknowledge it; I can't let myself not, because it's the reality. It's part of the reason all things "Paris" make me cry. It's the main reason.

They always talked about what a particular and special time it was, but I feel like it's something you can't even comprehend til it's over; like return culture shock. Suddenly, here I am, thinking about how special that time was. How blessed I was to have it; Paris, and everything that means to me.