"Gate B26"

Jennifer Lett

14 September 2009

RD1

                         "Gate B26"

   When I was in India, I loved India, but I do not wish to recite the wonders of the Taj Mahal, or Gwalior, or Delhi. When I was in Venezuela, I also loved Venezuela, but I don't want to talk about Caracas, or Angel Falls, or Margarita Island. I know the truth is that self-discovery can find you in an Airport. There is no greater place for a heart seeking to wander nor is there a more ideal place for a person to find freedom. The exact location of the place that changed me, a place where everything converged in a boisterous thwack! of humanity, was Gate B26. 

The smell of the airport is always familiar. Every airport terminal feels different and yet the same. Its as if your body adjusts faster to the time change when during check-in, you run into your old friend, Mr. "This Airline is incompetent! Do you have any idea who I am?!" And every now and then, you can catch someone glaring at you in the most peculiar of ways. There, at Gate B26, a pair of eyes connected with mine - the bluest of eyes. Its strange, you'll notice, that in an Airport Terminal when someone stares for a little too long, the feeling isn't always of physical attraction as much as it is purposeful curiosity. Those pair of eyes are wondering, "Where are you from? Is there something that I have to learn from you? Do you speak English?" 

Before I could wash off the outside world's figurative residue, I  would first have to make a practical run to the bathroom - stretching the savory final moments that I had to relax before it was time to board and my journey would begin its descent. I walked into that dark bathroom and realized how pleased I was at the thought of the automatic toilet seat covers. Airport bathrooms are always clean, ready for us when we get there - even if we're an ungrateful part of that process. While in the stall, I reflected on how happy I was feeling, completely opposite to the feeling I experienced in the outside world where anxiousness had become a monotonous reaction to trivialities. 

As everyone waited at Gate B26- hoping we hadn't missed our flight, I looked around me to see what class of humanity I had to learn from. I asked myself questions like, "Is this person sitting next to me Spanish? He looks Spanish." To my curiosity's satisfaction, moments later, the most pronounced Cuban accent exploded from this man's skinny mouth. I learned quickly to be careful what I wish for. For the next twenty minutes, my ears were forced to endure a rendition of Castro's assumption to Power in Cuba. I learned that "Castro" comes from the greek "Castrum" - A roman military camp. "I'm glad I learned that useful piece of information," I thought to myself and I was. 

It didn't take long for this man to lose interest in his own conversation and look over his shoulder to discover whose pair of hungry eyes were listening for any left overs. "It is I," my eyes proclaimed with confidence. "If he asks, I'll just tell him the truth, my dad is Cuban and my interest in your conversation was purely based on that correlation, please excuse my impolite staring." No doubt, it would most likely come out with stuttering and stammering. He reminded me of my father. Not physically - at first. I hadn't seen my father in 14 years. He and my mother split up when I was two. But, I noticed that my body recognized him because the impulse to cry was almost unbearable. 

I imagined that the stranger was my father and immediately, I slumped in my chair and worried that I wasn't dressed appropriately, "My pants are too frayed and my hair is undone," I berated myself. I literally began to feel myself dumbing down. I quickly listed all of the books that I had read in college and tried to remember my scholastic achievements in case he might ask.

After this defensive reaction of mine ceased, I relaxed and I reciprocated his eye's kindness. I felt my posture begin to take shape again. Yet, I couldn't bear to think of myself as being that hopeless and weak so I clumsily ran into the dark bathroom. At first, I couldn't look at myself in the mirror. I drifted back in time. As a child, I used to avoid mirrors, always preferring to use the side mirror in a car in lieu of the one above me. Only laughter was able to snap me out of my daze - two young girls giggling at each other for whatever reason young girls giggle. I forgot what I was doing, I laughed along with them and I unintentionally looked up in the mirror as I softly sang, "When you forgive your imperfections and you've auctioned all your clothes, and look to see your true reflection. You will be the one who loves you the most"1

I found my face.  It was beautiful. No flaws to be found. Perfect skin. Beautiful hair. Beautiful Eyes. I walked a proud walk back to my seat. I remembered my love of music and words and my ability to hear what so many others could not. I thought of my darling husband who I still loved just the same as the day we were married. As I settled comfortably back into my seat beside the man with the skinny lips I offered him a smile.  "How strange and possibly cruel of fate,"  I  capriciously thought to myself. I thought that I had already left that place of wanting. Then I remembered the wish I wished the day I bought my plane ticket, "Make me a stronger person," I said to life.  

People leave their homes to go to places like the Middle East and South America or Europe because they are hoping to fall in love with themselves; to love who they are or to become who they love. But I believe there are thousands of avenues and hundreds of instances through which we can experience growth. It happened for me, at Gate B26.  

   

      

 

1. Song lyric by Brett Dennen "You will be the one who loves you the most"

 

 "He who travels in search of something which he has not got, travels away from himself and grows old even in youth among old things.  Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Self-Reliance"  

Please click on the link below to watch the song performed by Brett Dennen

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B7qD6RZObvk