IF, as Pythagoras puts it, a thought is an idea in progress, then to be in transit during a trip must be your soul and body are in progress. Does the syllogism work? If it does not, no worries, for I am like Niels Bohr who said: if you are not logical, then do not fret, so long as you are thinking. Wait, the man who developed the model of the atom, which became the Bohr model of the atom, did not exactly say those words. What he said was, “No, you are not thinking; you are just being logical. Having stated that, or having quoted the quote, does it matter if there is no logic in my thought? See how “thinking” and “logic” can haunt us?
The fact is whenever we are at the airport, thinking – that most solipsistic act of a human being after loving and hating – takes over our being. We think at each point of the terminal. We think as we get off the Grab car that brings us to the place. Is this man really kind or has the system of transporting passengers rubbed on him and transformed him into a figure of kindness? Given how lousy our transportation system is, any kindness to strangers makes us all giddy.
The fact is I was thinking deep when I reached the airport and, instead of flowing right into the gate where we place our bags on conveyors for the first x-ray inspection, I was accosted by guards. They are not regular guards; they are the type that looks at your ticket, not in equal measure. There were two guards. One was very fastidious in inspecting the tickets and it happened that those lining up before him had hard copies of the airline vouchers. Papers as long as any form of tedious waiting. The guard made me think, if I were the guard, would I act the same way, as in checking the papers as if I were the travel agent or ground steward. It was at this point when, caught thinking (see you can be apprehended by your own thinking process), the other guard, a female, called us to go to her. Savior! She looked quickly at mobile phones (this line had the updated consumers) and waved them off.
The first stop in any terminal, once you are in, is either the toilet or the cafe. I opted for the cafe. French in inspiration and with a limited number of tables. I was fortunate because a couple hastily stood up, leaving me with a table that was wet with coffee and sugar spilled. Clean as you go. The instruction was like a benediction. It was not a message for consumers; it was a whisper from the Divine. I was overthinking.
I looked at the cafe and caught the gaze of the girl at the counter. Tissue please. I was starting to wipe the table clean when the Tissue Girl came to me and pleaded I allow her to do the work. She did not really plead. I just thought the kindness made her words come across as a plea. Who knows, she must have hated my pretend selflessness. Or, she must have gotten used to these cosmopolitan travelers who become so fastidious with sanitation once they are in a place where being there meant you had money to take plane rides, not the Ro-Ro, or the big ships.
Airports even if the air conditioners are not working optimally still stink of surplus and workers not under the minimum wage law. In this country, airports must be the only public place where the world can have the impression we also know something about hygiene.
With coffee served and the Shepherd’s pie in front of me, I did not immediately go into my breakfast. I surveyed the surroundings and gloated because I had a table and the rest were struggling with their sandwiches and coffee while seated on tough steel sofas. If my aunt were around, she would have stage-whispered to me, “Thank the Lord. You are loved.”
Theology always has a place in terminals. Also judgment.
I was deep into thoughts (see again how we are really always captured in thinking) when I noticed the table beside me had been vacated by the woman with Dior sprinkled all over her pajama-looking OOTD (Outfit of the Day, for the heck of it). Jimjams they are called. The table did not stay long empty, as an old man came and held on to the chair around it as if removing his hand from the grip will also allow the love to fly away. Complex thought. Still thinking.
The old man kept looking at the direction of the cafe. I followed his gaze where, at its end, was a woman effervescently beautiful, with a blouse that displayed her fair-skinned arms. She is much too young for this man. The woman finished her order and called the man. They came back together to the table, and sat closer to me. I concentrated on my breakfast, sipping my unfairly priced coffee. But I had wanted to look up. Finally, I managed to raise my cup so high that I could hide my eyes behind its mouth without anyone noticing I was intently looking at someone. This woman.
She was old, but she was wearing good makeup.
I went back to my pie, soggy and abandoned, and thought how the world could be mean and unfair to men. We could not wear makeup.
The couple stayed long. I had time to observe more. The woman must have had a nose lift years ago. Age had ruined the constructed nose bridge. She wanted to look beautiful for her husband. Then, I looked quickly at the old man hunched over his coffee. He must really love her. Even now.
E-mail: titovaliente@yahoo.com
Image credits: Jimbo Albano