I like airports. Especially in a gargantuan complex like Heathrow, where the air literally hums with people’s anxiety and excitement mercifully punctuated by bouts of much-needed sleep on the chairs in this waiting area, innumerable stories are being told all around. I can’t help but wonder to where everyone is going, from where they are coming. Is it family? Work? Is anyone in this terminal on a spontaneous romantic adventure with their beloved? You wouldn’t think you’d find so many refreshing glimpses of humanity in a place where they also demand your shampoo doesn’t exceed 100 mL and they pat you down if you look at them cross-eyed, or if you don’t. Lives bustle on around me without noticing my idle observation. Next to me, a young girl attempts to soothe her baby brother by singing the most atonal version of “The Itsy Bitsy Spider” I have ever heard, yet it seems comforting nonetheless. While I snoozed like a transient resident of the Third Street Promenade in a café booth, I would wake up every so often to hear a couple beside me animatedly planning side excursions during their upcoming business trip to Paris. The man knew more about Paris than the woman, or was at least acting like that to impress her. For both of them, their French pronunciation left much to be desired.
I can humor my incorrigible imagination by filling in the details of all the life-bubbles I casually pass through, but it’s always nice to actually talk to someone. When I found my window seat on the plane to Heathrow, I bashfully told the lady already in the aisle seat that I would be sitting next to her. I was perfectly content to stare out the window or sleep the entire flight, but while I was rummaging through my behemoth backpack for my iPod, my stuffed hammerhead shark dropped out and she jokingly asked if he was an experienced traveler. That started a conversation that threaded itself throughout the entire flight, and I discovered she was seriously interesting. A metalworker by trade, she showed me the beautiful bracelet she had made herself. I showed her my camp friendship bracelets. (Seat neighbor: 1, Taylor: 0.) She lived in London for half her life and still had the accent, but had been living in America for quite some time and was returning to England for a cousin’s wedding. I told her about my gap year plans and my previous trips to England, which impressed her. We had both lived in Malvern, PA at one point and shared stories about art and music and the therapeutic nature of doing our respective crafts. As we parted in the terminal, she saw my nametag on my backpack and told me her name was Karen. She said she would eagerly await the day she would hear about Dr. Taylor the Piccolo Player. I’m positive Harvard prepares young academics for more than just careers in medicine, but her green-eyelinered eyes that matched her sweater crinkled and I couldn’t protest. She even hugged me. I’ve never met a Karen I didn’t like.
While I am capable of being extremely gregarious around strangers, I can also be painfully awkward. As I poked at my sushi lunch with chopsticks in a sleepy fog, a British man approached me and asked if he could sit in the same booth. I only looked up long enough to chirp, “Of course!” and didn’t even scan to see if there were really no other seats. After that we ate in silence. It was an almost comical silence, though, like we were an old couple supping at Olive Garden on a Wednesday evening before bingo, with our gruff gastronomic reverie broken only by our heavy elderly nose-breathing and clinking silverware. He left as suddenly as he came, and I realized I was thankful for whatever company he was. I don’t think I’ve ever been completely on my own without anyone I know for this long before. To pass the time until my next flight, sometimes I will lap the terminal just to see if there is a place of commerce or consumption I haven’t seen yet (there isn’t). The way I feel I’m always going against the stream of traffic regardless of my direction is reminiscent of Samohi’s walkways and it’s oddly nostalgic. I have just over 3 more hours to go before the humdinger flight to Cape Town, and I’m starting to seriously consider drumming up a game of Duck, Duck, Goose among my fellow cosmopolitans.
I can’t wait to step off that next plane into an utterly new world. My only apprehension lies in the fact that I know this will the most important thing I’ve done in my life thus far and I will certainly be changed on the other side, but I don’t know how. It’s thrilling to be teetering on the edge of an abyss, especially when that abyss holds doing selfless things for others. For giving hope and laughter to those who need it most. To experience a more meaningful, saturated, colorful version of life. I’m prying my eyes away from the music stand and the book for once and it’s hard, but I like what I see.
6:00 p.m.
Hour 9 of my confinement here in Heathrow. I'm starting to lose my grip on reality, but don't worry--if Nam couldn't break me, neither can this. Wait, am I even allowed to hijack someone else's memories like that?
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