The Zig Zag # 2

Ahh, good morning. It’s 6:30 a.m., and I am at the airport. My flight doesn’t take off until 8:15. I hate that. Although arriving for a flight two hours early is a bit much, in my opinion, the extra time in the airport presents possibilities.

I have this fanciful notion that airports are hopeful places. A new destination equals fascinating adventures and limitless possibilities. What other way is there to travel but to travel hopefully? I’d like to think that each place I travel changes me somehow. Coming back always makes me see my home base with a slightly different perspective. Pittsburgh, Washington D.C., Sarasota, Austin, San Diego all have competed for the home base title. But Pittsburgh. Ahh, Pittsburgh. The Steel City will always have a special place in my heart.

Pittsburgh, as far as hometowns go, has served me well. Characteristics that I hold dear epitomize what it means to be from there. Hard-working, sincere, and down-to-earth are ingrained in the fabric of my being, and they show up no matter which postal code I commit to next.

In my travels across my life, I’m always looking for community. How to find it. How to make it stick. The airport is no exception to this search. Although you are sitting next to a complete stranger on the plane, the proximity by which you sit next to that stranger lends itself to a certain amount of potential intimacy. I think it’s cool that we all have a common destination; as if that should evoke a sort of camaraderie among us. I don’t usually chat with people on planes unless my row companions are open to it.

But regardless if my row mates and I get chatty, I have to admit when leaving a plane after a particularly long flight, I get a bit sentimental. The thought strikes me that I will never see these people again. I silently wish them well and wonder what awaits them. Are they making connections to other destinations? Are they in town for a funeral, a wedding or their grandparent’s 75th wedding anniversary? Will a loved one pick them up at arrivals? Will they hail a taxi all alone?

All of these strangers were a part of my own journey. They passed through my life for what feels like mere milliseconds in the grand scheme of this big world, but they passed through it nonetheless. People with children, people with significant others, people with big and small problems, people with different attitudes, different perspectives on life, and different airline meal choices. Everyone has a story. Most people just get on planes, go and don’t care what’s going on around them. But I suppose I’ve always seen the flying experience a bit differently...

My romance with airports started when I was in elementary school. My parents thought it beneficial to spend equal amounts of one on one time with my brother and me. Wednesday was my evening to spend with my Mom. She and I were left to do whatever we wished.

Why Wednesdays? I don’t quite remember. Maybe we just needed something fun to look forward to on hump day or maybe that was the only night during the week my Mom had off. Regardless, I cherished Wednesdays. To me, my mom was the coolest, prettiest lady I knew, and I had her all to myself.

The activities varied each Wednesday. Some Wednesdays we would go to the mall and eat dinner in the food court. Other Wednesdays, it was just dinner at Olive Garden and a trip to the bookstore. Those were all fun, but my favorite Wednesdays were the ones we spent at the airport.

Spending an evening at the airport without a boarding pass or destination in mind: Strange? Perhaps. But this was long before security check points, taking your shoes off and sandwich bags full of 3 oz. bottles of toiletries. This was a time when people could still meet loved ones right at the gate. Not only that but also this was the BRAND NEW Pittsburgh International Airport. I had never seen an airport with moving sidewalks, an underground tram or concourses as long as football fields filled with magazine stores, fast food restaurants and gift shops. I was absolutely enthralled; especially since traveling on airplanes was something my family did so infrequently. I always believed it had less to do with the fact that my Dad was afraid to fly and more to do with the fact that the word ‘vacation’ didn’t really exist in my hard-working, frugal father’s vocabulary. “Time off from work was meant for educational pursuits,” Dad would say. This is why to this day I can name every Civil War battlefield in Pennsylvania and Virginia, but can’t speak intelligently about any tropical resorts. But I digress…

Mom and I had our airport routine down to a science. I would make her park as far away from the airport entrance as she could so that we could ride all of the moving sidewalks. I would jump off victoriously, and race toward the underground tram with its automated voice, “This tram will be arriving at Concourses A, B, C and D. Please hold on.” As I felt the pull and tug of inertia from traveling at what seemed faster than the speed of light, I would sit next to Mom and observe the people on the tram. There always seemed to be more suitcases than people: Big ones, small ones, ones with ornate doo-dads or ribbons tied to the handles for easy identification at baggage claim. People and their bags always looked so excited. I was excited too. I couldn’t wait for what I knew was on the other side of the tram doors.

The doors would open with a rush and the passengers, Mom and I included, would pour out of the tram eager to get to the gates. My anticipation was building. The ascent on the escalator was always the best part. Slowly, slowly, up. My pig tails flopped all over as I bounced from one foot to the other on the step in front of my mom. She always placed a gentle hand on my shoulder in an attempt to calm me down.

Reaching the top area, which opened up to the center of the airport buzz was like summiting Everest for me. This epicenter of activity housed the main information desk, the scrolling news ticker that snaked around a huge globe, which informed travelers of world events and, of course, the illuminated arrival and departure boards with every possible destination listed. The concourses jetted out like quick flecks of light traveling in space. The hurried people, racing for their gates with luggage trolling behind them in one hand and a quick bite to eat in the other. I was transfixed. My eyes were big and buggy. My mouth agape. My heart racing just like those rushing travelers. I was a dry sponge, sopping it all up as my mother firmly led me by the hand to our next destination.

Which, of course, was Bain’s Deli. Corn beef on Jewish Rye with spicy yellow mustard. Check and Check. Pickle spear on the side. Check. Ruffle potato chips. Check. Icy cold lemonade. Check. Aunt Annie’s cinnamon/sugar pretzel for dessert. Check and Check. This was the standard dining fare for our Wednesday airport adventures. It never varied. Ever. I took comfort in the consistency of this part of our routine because it was the next leg of the journey that always changed. What came next was always the most exciting part for me. My fantastic dream of adventure.

It never mattered to me that I was never actually going anywhere. It was the anticipation of the unknown that thrilled me. What I imagined the destinations of each gate to be like was probably much more fascinating than any of the realities. Every Wednesday it was my choice where we were “going.” B12 was going to Madison, Wisconsin. Nah, too cold. B13 was going to Chicago. Nah, too windy. B14 was going to Orlando, Florida. Hmmmm. Yes. This was it. This was one of my top picks on Wednesdays. In my elementary school mind, Orlando equaled M.I.C.K.E.Y. M.O.U.S.E. Disney World was unknown territory for me. I thought if I picked the Orlando gate as the place to finish dinner and watch the planes take off on Wednesdays, Mom would eventually get the hint that I wanted to go.

Every Wednesday, my mom and I would sit at the Orlando gate and share our meal. We would talk about what I wanted to do and see at Disney World. Of course, we would always talk about what we would eat at each meal. We would imagine which characters I would get my photo with, and what souvenirs would take over our suitcases.

I was thirty when I first made it to Disney World, but I have had some fantastic real-deal, big-girl flights in between those Wednesdays and becoming a grown up Disney World first-timer. I’ve travelled all over the United States and to a few foreign lands all the while I was gathering stories and adventures to my heart's content.

My mom gave me an incredible gift back then. She gave me the freedom and space to dream. To envision a life that burst through the city limits of Pittsburgh. She inspired me to believe that a bigger life was out there waiting for me. I was full of hope and wonder, and quite ready to take on the world. Those dreams of far off travel honed an extraordinary sense of adventure that has defined me and enriched my life in ways I couldn’t even fathom back then. For that I am forever grateful. My wish is that other little kids in the world can be so blessed and grateful with a mother who finds ways to inspire them to dream. What a gift.