Flying.
The sky is blacker than black. Ice crunches under spinning rubber, headlights illuminating the asphalt before me as the road snakes around the base of mountains. In the distance, hundreds of starry, glittering lights coming towards me; the weekend warriors on their way to a new adventure. The mountains await, ready to give life as readily as they can take it away.
“Park in Row 4”, the illuminated screen commands as the boom gate lifts. I pull in between yellow lines, slightly askew but comparatively straight next to my neighbours and their bulky SUVs. I grab my bags, standing outside of my car and braving the cold for a few minutes, awaiting the shuttle. The shuttle, a vehicle taking me and a dozen others from my vehicle to yet another vehicle to take me to yet another place.
Passengers pile in and the shuttle quickly fills with people and their enthusiasm for their next destination. “We’re going to Mexico. Don’t need much.” “Unless you want to pack 20 bathing suits.” “Where are you off to?” “Italy”. The crowd oohs in response. Travelling in post-pandemic times feels all the more special now; heck, everything we once considered ordinary feels all the more special now.
I exit the shuttle and enter the double glass doors, navigating the litany of screens, check-in stations and overhead signage. I can see how airports can be overwhelming to some. I spent much of my life in transit, on the move, betwixt and between cultures, continents, languages. For me, it’s familiar, almost home. There’s a special language to this in-between place, too.
Never able to turn off the designer in me, my brain quickly assesses and rates airports according to their user-friendliness. How easy is the wayfinding? If English was my second language (and it was, long ago), would I be able to navigate without having to ask someone for help? If I was in a hurry, would I be able to get from A to B efficiently and without confusion? Are there frequently spaced washrooms, water stations? I zip through the familiar terrain with ease. It’s my first flight in two years, since the before times—but I haven’t forgotten the routine, forever ingrained in me: check-in, security, waiting, boarding.
I arrive at security, arguably the most mediocre part of the travelling experience. Naturally, I get randomly picked to have my bags checked and tested. It’s okay; the gate won’t close for another hour. I’m friendly and patient with the security agent as my personal belongings are inspected. She’s just doing her job. Then it’s off to the scanning bays, where it takes no less than 3 trays to separate my technology from my bag from my liquids and gels, the contents of my life and daily routine as transparent as the plastic bag they ask you to put your toiletries in. I think the contents of someone’s suitcase says a lot about them. I get on with the business of having to undress, removing anything that may run the risk of setting off the metal detectors.
Passing through security without an issue, I re-tie my shoes, re-pack my bags, and find my gate. Putting a degree of faith in my fellow travellers (and feeling thankful for the privilege of living in a place where I do not have to fear immediate theft), I briefly abandon my bags in search of the washroom and drinking fountains. I refill my water bottle, pleased with the easy-to-locate sensor-activated water dispenser.
I return to my seat and my belongings. A friendly female voice over the P.A. announces flights boarding, gates closing. The sun rises softly over the tarmac; a pale pink glow illuminating the distant, yet still larger than life mountains I call home. Even from here, they tower over the horizon, unmistakeable.
I can be restless at home, but here, I find a strange comfort and a settling; a deep grounding in my bones despite the flurry of activity, of comings and goings, of hellos and goodbyes. I do some of my best writing, thinking and being at airport gates and on airplanes, several thousand feet above ground. Is it a symptom of having lived in that in-between place all my life? Never fully belonging anywhere? Do I flourish in the transitions and the nothing places?
Boarding is called. The attendant at the gate scans my boarding pass and carefully looks over my ID to confirm that I am, in fact, me. At the end of the ramp, I am greeted by a flight attendant who hands me a wet wipe to sanitize my seat. Like a row of ants in a tiny tunnel, one after another we meander down the aisle, throwing bags and coats overhead as we find our seats. Once again, I am observing, assessing; I notice and appreciate the braille next to the aisle numbers above me.
The P.A. crackles into life as the captain makes his pre-flight announcements. He mentions that we need to de-ice the plane before takeoff. “Canada. Classic.”, I say in my head, amused. Then our wheels are spinning and the familiar mechanical whirring of the engines begins as we speed up the runway, ready for flight.
Got to go now. We’re taking off.
