I’ve always had an odd fascination with planes. Maybe it’s the way they defy gravity and in turn defy our reality. Or maybe it’s just the simple fact they remind me of a real-life Magic School Bus.
The flight attendants quickly became magical fairy Godmothers and Godfathers of the sky in my mind.
Layovers? The more, the merrier.
Why yes, I would love to put my belt and jewelry in your bucket.
Please feel free to wave your majestical magic wand over me to check for illegal carry-ons.
You would make | my | day if you experience turbulence in the air.
To me, flying is romantic. Arriving at an airport means you’re off to see something or someone you love. No one goes through the headaches of security and bag check if it isn’t for a purpose. It’s an act of love.
And when I recently spent nearly 5 hours in an airport, I found even more respect for them. I was looking forward to my trip to the airport for days. The planes, the melting pot (or is it still a tossed salad? Are we on to fruit salad? What about a nice clam chowder?) of languages around me | the embraces | the romance.
As I sat by baggage claim one, I watched a family with three little kids gather around the bottom of an escalator. They held signs with drawings of stick-figures holding hands with nearly illegible handwriting reading “welcome home, Edda! We missed you so so much.” My heart fluttered like your grandma’s does every time she gets on Facebook. I was almost as excited as they were. The youngest little boy came over to me speaking gibberish that as a proud aunt I can translate decently effectively. He was three, excited, and had a boo-boo on his knee that needed a kiss. In fear of completely creeping out his parents nearby, I pointed to his mom and told him to ask her to kiss it.
Cheers to Edda and all the love he or she receives. Isn’t it beautiful to know that no matter how near or far you may be from your loved ones that love knows no boundaries? Whether they be linguistic or geographic in nature, they become invisible in the face of love.