BRICKS TO BABEL: Out of Anonymity

Airports are the greatest microcosm for human life. People fly for different reasons, and airports are where the lives and emotions of all these travelers intersect. Here more than anywhere else, every person is a stranger, and every stranger is a random encounter waiting to happen. 

The airport pulsates with energy. The boisterous hum of people talking, luggage dragging, carts beeping and attendants announcing "last call before boarding" echoes as one indecipherable drone. And then there is me, an anonymous drop of water in the human current of passengers flowing in and out of each terminal. Waiting at my crowded gate, the man sitting next to me leans over as a girl sitting across from us coughs.

"You don't suppose we're going to get sick from her, do you?" It happens just like that. Every day, at every airport, at every gate – a stranger steps out of anonymity.

   "Ah, I'm not gonna worry about it," I replied. "Have you walked around at all? The whole airport is infected. If you don't get it from her, you'll get it from the flight attendant or the guy sitting next to you on the plane." The man smiled as he pulled a bottle of Purell from his backpack. 

He was a gentle, nonchalant man in his late 60s, and he had been talking about his trip on the phone with his wife before turning to me. He flew to Philadelphia to see his father whom he had grown distant from because of geography and the passing of time. His father was dying. As he spoke with his wife, the man remained very calm, even as he described to her the physical deterioration and fatigue of his father. What he said next was heart wrenching.

"What were your final words to him before leaving?" I imagined his wife asking.

The man responded, "I thanked my father for my life and told him that I enjoy it very much."After this phone conversation the man sat in silence for a short time before turning to talk to me.

"Thanks," I said to the man as I rubbed the transparent blob of Purell between my fingers, wondering if he had seen me take two pills of Tylenol earlier, in which case he would know that I was already sick. 

"You know you're probably right," he said. "The airport is infected. You're probably sick, too."

I laughed. "So where are you flying to?" I asked.

The man proceeded to tell me that he lived in Canada, just north of the San Juan Islands. He explained to me the unfortunate purpose for his trip east where he had spent part of his childhood. He told me about how he used to sell antique motorcycles and about his active lifestyle and passion for hiking and kayaking.

"What about you?" he asked. "What are you studying in school?"

"Anything I think I might enjoy," I responded. He nodded approvingly, and I asked him if he would do anything different if he was to do college all over again. The man contemplated this for a little and began to speak, only his eyes were focused straight ahead. 

"Not me," he said. "My sons. I have three of them. I don't hear from them much anymore. As a father, I taught them just one thing when they were little. The three of them loved playing with their Legos, and when their laughter and carefree bliss reached a high pitch I would run into the room and say, ‘Stop! Right now, this feeling you have right now, this is what you are looking for!' It's that feeling in life when absolute satisfaction is in perfect alignment with the present moment. My oldest son likes geology. He used to collect rocks he carried down from the mountain when he was little. But he got sidetracked, took some job with computers. He gets paid well but doesn't care much for what he does. Whatever you do, do what brings you happiness."                 

We stopped talking after the boarding call for our flight, but the conversation continues in my head. We shook hands, said our goodbyes and stepped back into anonymity.  "Have a nice life," I thought to myself, knowing I would probably never see the man again.