I got to the airport with too much
time to spare, none of which I’d relegated to saying a fond farewell to
Baltimore because, frankly, if you have nothing fond to say... As my mother
pulls to the side of curb, I get out of the car with a shrug. I happen to be slightly
too young and unworldly to remember the romantic bygone days when your loved
ones could still walk you to your gate. It’s only in movies that you still see
someone at departures with their handkerchief drawn, hooving on a Benson and Hedges
while tearfully kissing their so-and-so goodbye. Farewells—bittersweet or
otherwise—are now to be delivered in the driveway loop outside of check-in
while taxicabs speed by. Romance at the airport dead. It’s cold, and not just for
November.
My mother’s car idles while I hug
her out of love and obligation. As I do, I shudder at the thought that we may
never see each other again; after all, I could be found floating face first among
the wreckage in the Thames. But the thought of a last goodbye makes me feel
alive. It’s frivolous and natural—a romantic notion born of neuroses, but romantic nonetheless.
A kind lady in a vest standing behind a
counter whisks my luggage away. Her round face and rosy cheeks give the
impression that her kitchen is covered wall-to-wall in calico and whicker,
geese frolicking through a meadow on every paper towel. She refuses to turn
over her shoulder as my bag disappears down the belt. Meanwhile, I
want to wave. Like my mother, I have no choice but to assume that I will may
see it again. The vested cherub offers me some consolation. “It will be waiting
for you in London,” she smiles, my cue to step aside.
So I do. Breezing through
security, I follow the signs to a stool at the nearest bar. The guy slinging
drinks bears a striking resemblance to the Native American dude who throws a
drinking fountain through the window at the end of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s
Nest. The glass looks small in his hand as he pours me a Bloody Mary that contains
more horseradish than it does alcohol. I chew the first sip. With nothing else to occupy me, I take out my
phone so I can snap a picture of my cocktail. It doesn’t matter that I’m lonely
and overwrought, Facebook has earned the right to know precisely how happy I’m pretending
to be. Nine people “like” my post in the first five minutes. That’s validation
enough. For now.
