In Transit -Sam

We tend to think of airports as a place of departure and arrival. Our stay there is short and uneventful as we wait for the real adventure of our trips to begin or the mundane events of our lives to persist. In this sense, the airport is a weird gray area in the eye of the traveler. We don’t know what to make of them. And because of this our relationship and experience with them is either of disgust or neutrality. It’s not a place people enjoy. It’s a necessity, a rest stop for some and a routine day job for others.

            My one experience with a particular airport made me revaluate not just airports, but how much this mentality permeates through our everyday lives.

            My tale must begin with a confession of my frugality, for if it was not for this, this story would have never happened. In order to cut out spending another night in a hotel during a business trip, I decided to save by spending the night in the airport lobby. After recently graduating from Stanford Business School, my life had turned to one of monotonous work and routine.  I saw this airport as a last memory of my   youth. As I journeyed up the escalator from the dungeons where the trains reside, I was confronted with the everyday hustle and bustle that the airport sees. As the escalator ascended, the domed roof of the large lobby came into view.

            This lobby area was the central hub for the whole building.  It was the last stop before airport security separated the travelers from the well-wishers saying goodbye. A gigantic television occupied the center of the lobby. It’s screen towered overhead and informed travelers of all arriving and departing flights for the next few hours. Dozens of people craned their heads up to read the screen. All were tight-lipped and emotionless.  

The noise permeating the lobby came manly from the hustle of thousands of people moving from point A to point B. Luggage rattled, children cried, the PA system announcing incoming flights blared. Yet through all of this noise, no one really spoke. People pushed and shoved to get to their gates on time, children were scolded for dawdling, and couples quietly held hands as they made their way towards their terminal. I had never noticed how utterly inhuman and devoid of life these airports felt, probably because I was caught up in the act myself. My predicament had landed me in a unique position of observation. In having the luxury of time in a building barren of any, I had become a wanderer, a critic on commotion.

            As 6 turned to 12, the evening rush of travelers withered. The bright, antiseptic neon lights in the building dimmed, and shops closed. By 1:30 in the morning, the night crew had finished rescuing the floors from the previous day’s grime, gum, and litter. As they powered down their machines, the eerie silence of the airport began to sink in.

Walking through an airport at night is like walking through a cemetery. As I walked I wondered about the people strewn sleeping on the floors and various chairs. Where were they from? What were they doing here? The amount of people might change, but the tone had not. The people here still thought of an airport in the same way. It was a short pit stop one must endure in order to get to their desired goal.

            Suddenly, I began to hear music, a solo violin rising up from the silence. It echoed off the linoleum tiling and danced around the walls.  My walk turned into hunt for the melody that made my hair stand on end. As I left the lobby for a small hallway, the music swelled, reaching a crescendo at a small door. The room inside appeared to be for lost things.

 Luggage, back packs, strollers, and even a lonesome shoe or two could be seen, patiently waiting to be retrieved by their owners. Sitting on an elderly suitcase was a man. His deft fingers caressed the strings of an elegant violin, emitting a sound with a serene tenacity that the airport had never scene.  As I took a seat near the corner, he gave a knowing smile, acknowledging my presence. I became entranced by this violinist living in the present within a place that’s governed by the future.  After what could have been an hour, he arose from his seat and began to walk towards the door, the melody trailing after him.  The room began to fall into silence, leaving me alone and stunned.

While the years have aged my body, this memory stills burns bright. People are so caught up in what they plan to do that they forget to look around from time to time. We all may want to live by a plan, but it’s the moments when we leave our fate up to chance that we feel most free. The music reminded that beauty no matter how brief can sprout anywhere and that all you have to do is look around to find it.