Someday, many tomorrows from now, or even after a thousand days hence, we hope to look back at Corona virus (COVID 19) from the rear view mirror of history - a receding winding road to humanity's triumph over an infectious strain and stress on the collective psyche brought on by fear, real or imagined.
Meanwhile, should we not see and focus on what silver linings we can glean from the gathering dark clouds that are soon to be parted as they always did when people interact more than ever before, perhaps in even more unexpected ways toward a unity of purpose?
Airports, especially if one is traveling alone, are the near ideal places for encountering strangers. But never inter-acting with any, nor they among one another. As always, encounters are brief and hurried as travelers go about their activities with blinders and ant-like precision to find that TSA line as if following a pheromone-laden path, then on to finding the right gate, sit down and wait until boarding time. At that moment everyone slumps to decompress to relieve the stress. Then only to ponder having to go through it once again at their destination. In reverse order - as in locating the right baggage carousel, picking up the checked-in luggage among many others that miraculously re-appear single file, like cut pieces of python, from underneath a red blinking light and black flapping fingers of rubber, snaking their way to their waiting owners to the cadence of a monotonous blare from a throaty horn familiar to factory workers during a shift change. Then you must find your ride or parking lot, or with luck meet up quickly with someone waiting to pick you up. That about sums it all up for the air travel experience.
Meanwhile, should we not see and focus on what silver linings we can glean from the gathering dark clouds that are soon to be parted as they always did when people interact more than ever before, perhaps in even more unexpected ways toward a unity of purpose?
Airports, especially if one is traveling alone, are the near ideal places for encountering strangers. But never inter-acting with any, nor they among one another. As always, encounters are brief and hurried as travelers go about their activities with blinders and ant-like precision to find that TSA line as if following a pheromone-laden path, then on to finding the right gate, sit down and wait until boarding time. At that moment everyone slumps to decompress to relieve the stress. Then only to ponder having to go through it once again at their destination. In reverse order - as in locating the right baggage carousel, picking up the checked-in luggage among many others that miraculously re-appear single file, like cut pieces of python, from underneath a red blinking light and black flapping fingers of rubber, snaking their way to their waiting owners to the cadence of a monotonous blare from a throaty horn familiar to factory workers during a shift change. Then you must find your ride or parking lot, or with luck meet up quickly with someone waiting to pick you up. That about sums it all up for the air travel experience.
Traveling alone is therefore akin to the elusive neutrino - that speeding, sub-atomic particle that 99.99999 percent of the time never interacts with any other particle, going through slabs of concrete or walls of steel or an entire planet even and not affecting or be affected by any other substance. Airports though are where irony of all ironies prevail - the busier an airport is, with more passengers going through to and fro, the less likely that strangers will ever interact with one another. The thicker the crowd the less likely one passenger interacts with another. Passengers become neutrino-like. The stress is too much to make conversation, let alone with a stranger of unpredictable demeanor.
Then the corona virus (COVID19) struck with the suddenness of an undetected asteroid. That changed everything.
I was traveling by myself a few days ago from Boston. The virus held back a lot of would-be travelers, either postponing indefinitely or canceling their travel altogether. There was no line at TSA screening although that did not eliminate the serpentine path from "Enter Here" to the venerable podium lorded over by a uniformed gate keeper whose nod or hand motion, like a magic wand, declares each passenger eligible for passage. Then and only then when one is able to proceed and use the rolled conveyor for his or her inanimate travel companion - hand bags, laptops, carry-on-luggage, jackets, etc. - followed immediately by the privilege to be scanned by an unfeeling detector that is likely to squeal at the slightest indication of non-compliance.
Strangely, TSA personnel were much too kind, smiling even, unstressed by the lightened workload. Alternatively, the image was that of when a "slowdown in business" brought on the best in storekeepers' attitude and demeanor to win over passing customers. This is all in jest, I hasten to add, in case "someone" is reading this.
Travelers were noticeably lighthearted even though they were two to three hours way too early for their flight, after breezing through luggage check-in, followed by a leisurely stroll, sauntering towards the TSA cordon with an invisible line of people. For the first time there seemed to be more uniformed personnel than there were travelers. The scene could easily have been a subplot for the "Twilight Zone" - the movie. Clearly an exaggeration on my part but, hey, my imagination was playing tricks on my conditioned mind.
Eye contacts between travelers almost always guaranteed a smile. Smiles of elation, enthusiastic ones, even smiles framed by one unmistakable, "Can you believe this?" expression. Sitting areas fronting the near empty food court were plentiful, charging stations and electrical outlets with USB receptacles along rows of couches and tall tables were much too eerily vacant, except for a handful of disbelieving souls. Dunkin Donuts had just two customers ahead of me. Got my bottled water in under three minutes from the "What would you like?' to me getting my change and receipt. I took one of those tall tables that had six empty high chairs around it.
Not long after, a couple took the other end. They just knew we will be on the same plane even though we were not anywhere near the designated gate yet. I had on a Texas Longhorn sweat shirt. They guessed correctly. Conversation was spontaneously quick and by the twentieth minute I knew they were retired and were visiting her son who recently moved to work for a very large oil corporation in Houston. Notice, "her son"? They were a mixed family, each one has children from each other's prior marriages. Her other son is in the Army, currently at Fort Bragg. The husband was a retired teacher who taught children with learning disabilities, some with behavioral problems. His ex-wife had problems with alcohol; that piece of information volunteered freely by his now current wife. He nonchalantly mentioned too that he has a 26 year old college graduate who walks dogs for a living. Why was she a dog walker? She can't find work with her degree in environmental science. He proudly showed me his copy of Stephen Hawking's "A Brief History of Time" when he saw the book in front of me - Fulvio Melia's "The Black Hole at the Center of Our Galaxy". He joked that there had to be some kind of cosmic meaning to the near coincidence. She was a retired nurse in a cancer hospital. She talked about her 84 year mother who ably lives by herself except for a once weekly visit from a part time caregiver. Of course, she looks in on her regularly herself. And there were more other trivia I learned about New Hampshire - their home state. They bade leave shortly to check out the gift shops. There was even more time when she told me she just got a text notification from the airline that our flight was pushed back from the scheduled 12:40 takeoff to 1:10 p.m.
Why do people - complete strangers - in a mere moment's notice tell me their life story? It's a "gift". I'm serious.
My wife always tells me that. Initially, she just wondered at first when complete strangers we meet for the first time would just tell me (unmistakably directly to me) their life stories, almost with abandon. Now she just marvels at the "gift". I can't explain it myself but I have to admit I have that effect on people. In the mid-eighties, we had a late middle aged secretary who moved to Houston when the entire company relocated from New York. In no time this secretary whose seniority extended over and beyond the other secretaries (she was the big boss's gatekeeper and you better know it) talked to me often. I was here barely long enough to apply for U.S. citizenship, so my spoken English was far from polished, roughened by a distinct Filipino accent, while she had the sharply direct Bronx or Queens, NY manner of speaking. Then the truth came out. It was cheaper for her to talk to me than to her psychotherapist. She "unburdened" for free by talking to me. Back then, secretaries served coffee or tea to their bosses on top of their regular typing duties and administrative functions. Well, on several occasions, something she never did but for the big boss, she from time to time brought coffee or tea to a very junior supply analyst and third world immigrant - me.
It's of course not really a "gift". I merely listen. And when called for I respond in a manner that connects with whatever the stranger wants to talk about, identifying the right "cue" as people talk, without arguing or judging. There is nothing to it, really. I think. I've always believed that conversations are like a currency transaction. It succeeds when both parties trade with the same currency regardless of denomination and if it means breaking down a large bill in exchange for some smaller ones or even change for a dollar or a peso, then both should enter into a transaction worthy of each other's time, however long or short it is.
Hardly two minutes back into my book when another couple took the next low round table with couches around it. The man was looking for a USB receptacle that worked. None seemed to at the round table. Sensing his frustration I pointed the one across from me on the same tall table I was at. It worked. Noticing his wife also unwinding the familiar USB umbilical cord of her own phone, I asked her to use the other USB receptacle and she complied, lugging her heavy carry-on luggage with her. Before I could finish the question, "Where y'all heading?", she declared they had "one way tickets to Vegas". She said it almost as a preamble to, "Go ahead, ask me why".
Now, if that was not begging me or anyone hearing it and not think, "There's got to be story there", then nothing ever will. But here is where preconception is quickly dashed to smithereens because what followed was one of the most pleasant, funny conversations one can ever wish for between complete strangers at the airport. Forget the book, time elapsed more quickly in an hour which felt like ten minutes.
Sofia and Marco (not writing their real names here) were leaving Massachusetts for good. They sold their pizzeria that had been a family business since the fifties. She in fact worked there along with her mother who took over when Sofia's grand parents passed away. Marco, unlike Sofia who was born here, came as a scrawny 16-year old immigrant from Naples. Their paths crossed when one day at the pizzeria's kitchen Sofia's mother was giving instructions to Marco, who started working there at night and on weekends while going to school on weekdays. Sofia's mother was strict, specially with her, but apparently Marco won her over before Sofia had anything to say about it. But it was meant to be. They continued the business after Sofia's mom passed on. They have a son and a daughter.
Why move to Las Vegas? But first, Sofia opened her phone's photo album. There was their Massachusetts' large front yard blanketed by thick snow and a huge bare tree in the middle. Next, she showed me the Vegas home they purchased not too long ago. It is Nevada, so the yard is all sand with one olive tree in the middle but their backyard had a brand new swimming pool with all the accessories of lounge chairs and a barbecue pit and water slide next to a cute diving board. She didn't stop there. There was a large living room but apparently she was proud of her brand new kitchen and laundry room with the latest washer/dryer combo. I sensed immediately that far from bragging, she wanted to point out to me that her new home cost less than a fourth of her over 100-year old home in Massachusetts and the property taxes were just as enticing as the Las Vegas strand. She apparently took pictures with her phone of old black and white photos of the old pizzeria started by her grand parents and various shots of family members from three generations.
Las Vegas is mid-way between Utah (where their son and his family live) and California where their daughter has decided to stay after going to school there. Now we know, "Why Las Vegas". The son was actually going to meet them at the Las Vegas airport.
Of her other photos she shared, she was proud to show her and Marco partying with the whole cast of the then very popular TV series (1999-2007), "The Sopranos". There she was with James Gandolfini's arm over her shoulder and another group photo with her and Marco bracketing Gandolfini sitting on a large leather sofa.
At some point Sofia wanted to buy me coffee, cake, whatever I liked from the Dunkin Donuts shop that was by then empty of customers. She begged to get me something but water was all I wanted. Marco started talking about their son who married a Chinese lady he met in college. The wedding was in Jakarta, Indonesia where their then soon-to-be-daughter-in-law was one of eleven children. Her father was the patriarch of a huge and influential Chinese family in Jakarta with all kinds of business holdings. Then Sofia interjected with her phone's photo album once more. Their two grand children - a mix of Italian and Chinese bloodline - are now in their teens. The thirteen year old grand daughter had the stunning features of Italian/Chinese beautifully melded together. Marco claimed that Michelangelo, had the Renaissance artist been living today, could not have imagined someone more beautiful. Indeed, the photo of the young girl supported his sentiments, albeit that of a grandfather. He had more to tell about their trip for the wedding to that part of the world they knew nothing about, especially about being met at the Jakarta airport by the bride's family in a stretched limo - something they thought was a scene only New York or Boston or LA could provide for a backdrop. Clearly not in that 11,000 island archipelago on the opposite side of the world.
The topics meandered from Caruso and Mario Lanza to the other TV series, "Everybody Loves Raymond", then on to Sophia Loren and Gina Lollobrigida, but we didn't talk about "The Godfather", politics and religion. The latter two are the currencies never to be exchanged among strangers.
Moments later after an hour had elapsed, the retired nurse from the other couple I met earlier came back around to tell me she got another text message from the airline that our flight was reset back to the original schedule. She thought I'd like to know that and I thanked her before she headed back to the gate.
Nothing got past Marco. He asked me who that was. I explained, to which he said in his heavily accented mix of Boston/Italian English, "She walked all the way back from Gate 34 to tell you that?" He elbowed Sofia and said, "What a guy, huh?"
We said our goodbyes. I told them how I enjoyed our conversation so much and likewise for them, they said. Marco handed me a couple of packets of hand sanitizer. Which brought us all back to the pressing reality of the moment, but we all laughed and we parted.
By the time I got to our gate the airline announced that the flight was reset once more
to the 1:10 departure. So, the airline ground personnel were going to have a paper airplane flying contest. Promptly, one lady personnel started distributing what she announced as top quality paper (they were 8-1/2 by 11 bond paper) to anyone willing to participate. I declined because I figured there were too many entrants already - all wannabe aeronautical engineers - and I cannot bear losing. There were three prizes - tiered First, Second, and Third based on flight distances - for $150, $100, $50 travel vouchers, respectively. That got a lot of people excited with contestants lined up on one side and spectators on another. Judging from the 'ohs' and 'ahs' it was as if people were watching the Wright brothers launched the first airplane at Kitty Hawk 117 years ago.
Such were some of the brief moments at the airport during the time of COVID 19.
It shall pass.
But not until the hysteria and paranoia subsides when folks begin to settle down and when paper products and canned goods begin to re-appear back on the store shelves.
Meanwhile, we can only hope that reason and normal modes of behavior return promptly. I'll be making the trip back to Boston and back to Texas again in several days so I am wishing for the best.
I was traveling by myself a few days ago from Boston. The virus held back a lot of would-be travelers, either postponing indefinitely or canceling their travel altogether. There was no line at TSA screening although that did not eliminate the serpentine path from "Enter Here" to the venerable podium lorded over by a uniformed gate keeper whose nod or hand motion, like a magic wand, declares each passenger eligible for passage. Then and only then when one is able to proceed and use the rolled conveyor for his or her inanimate travel companion - hand bags, laptops, carry-on-luggage, jackets, etc. - followed immediately by the privilege to be scanned by an unfeeling detector that is likely to squeal at the slightest indication of non-compliance.
Strangely, TSA personnel were much too kind, smiling even, unstressed by the lightened workload. Alternatively, the image was that of when a "slowdown in business" brought on the best in storekeepers' attitude and demeanor to win over passing customers. This is all in jest, I hasten to add, in case "someone" is reading this.
Travelers were noticeably lighthearted even though they were two to three hours way too early for their flight, after breezing through luggage check-in, followed by a leisurely stroll, sauntering towards the TSA cordon with an invisible line of people. For the first time there seemed to be more uniformed personnel than there were travelers. The scene could easily have been a subplot for the "Twilight Zone" - the movie. Clearly an exaggeration on my part but, hey, my imagination was playing tricks on my conditioned mind.
Eye contacts between travelers almost always guaranteed a smile. Smiles of elation, enthusiastic ones, even smiles framed by one unmistakable, "Can you believe this?" expression. Sitting areas fronting the near empty food court were plentiful, charging stations and electrical outlets with USB receptacles along rows of couches and tall tables were much too eerily vacant, except for a handful of disbelieving souls. Dunkin Donuts had just two customers ahead of me. Got my bottled water in under three minutes from the "What would you like?' to me getting my change and receipt. I took one of those tall tables that had six empty high chairs around it.
Not long after, a couple took the other end. They just knew we will be on the same plane even though we were not anywhere near the designated gate yet. I had on a Texas Longhorn sweat shirt. They guessed correctly. Conversation was spontaneously quick and by the twentieth minute I knew they were retired and were visiting her son who recently moved to work for a very large oil corporation in Houston. Notice, "her son"? They were a mixed family, each one has children from each other's prior marriages. Her other son is in the Army, currently at Fort Bragg. The husband was a retired teacher who taught children with learning disabilities, some with behavioral problems. His ex-wife had problems with alcohol; that piece of information volunteered freely by his now current wife. He nonchalantly mentioned too that he has a 26 year old college graduate who walks dogs for a living. Why was she a dog walker? She can't find work with her degree in environmental science. He proudly showed me his copy of Stephen Hawking's "A Brief History of Time" when he saw the book in front of me - Fulvio Melia's "The Black Hole at the Center of Our Galaxy". He joked that there had to be some kind of cosmic meaning to the near coincidence. She was a retired nurse in a cancer hospital. She talked about her 84 year mother who ably lives by herself except for a once weekly visit from a part time caregiver. Of course, she looks in on her regularly herself. And there were more other trivia I learned about New Hampshire - their home state. They bade leave shortly to check out the gift shops. There was even more time when she told me she just got a text notification from the airline that our flight was pushed back from the scheduled 12:40 takeoff to 1:10 p.m.
Why do people - complete strangers - in a mere moment's notice tell me their life story? It's a "gift". I'm serious.
My wife always tells me that. Initially, she just wondered at first when complete strangers we meet for the first time would just tell me (unmistakably directly to me) their life stories, almost with abandon. Now she just marvels at the "gift". I can't explain it myself but I have to admit I have that effect on people. In the mid-eighties, we had a late middle aged secretary who moved to Houston when the entire company relocated from New York. In no time this secretary whose seniority extended over and beyond the other secretaries (she was the big boss's gatekeeper and you better know it) talked to me often. I was here barely long enough to apply for U.S. citizenship, so my spoken English was far from polished, roughened by a distinct Filipino accent, while she had the sharply direct Bronx or Queens, NY manner of speaking. Then the truth came out. It was cheaper for her to talk to me than to her psychotherapist. She "unburdened" for free by talking to me. Back then, secretaries served coffee or tea to their bosses on top of their regular typing duties and administrative functions. Well, on several occasions, something she never did but for the big boss, she from time to time brought coffee or tea to a very junior supply analyst and third world immigrant - me.
It's of course not really a "gift". I merely listen. And when called for I respond in a manner that connects with whatever the stranger wants to talk about, identifying the right "cue" as people talk, without arguing or judging. There is nothing to it, really. I think. I've always believed that conversations are like a currency transaction. It succeeds when both parties trade with the same currency regardless of denomination and if it means breaking down a large bill in exchange for some smaller ones or even change for a dollar or a peso, then both should enter into a transaction worthy of each other's time, however long or short it is.
Hardly two minutes back into my book when another couple took the next low round table with couches around it. The man was looking for a USB receptacle that worked. None seemed to at the round table. Sensing his frustration I pointed the one across from me on the same tall table I was at. It worked. Noticing his wife also unwinding the familiar USB umbilical cord of her own phone, I asked her to use the other USB receptacle and she complied, lugging her heavy carry-on luggage with her. Before I could finish the question, "Where y'all heading?", she declared they had "one way tickets to Vegas". She said it almost as a preamble to, "Go ahead, ask me why".
Now, if that was not begging me or anyone hearing it and not think, "There's got to be story there", then nothing ever will. But here is where preconception is quickly dashed to smithereens because what followed was one of the most pleasant, funny conversations one can ever wish for between complete strangers at the airport. Forget the book, time elapsed more quickly in an hour which felt like ten minutes.
Sofia and Marco (not writing their real names here) were leaving Massachusetts for good. They sold their pizzeria that had been a family business since the fifties. She in fact worked there along with her mother who took over when Sofia's grand parents passed away. Marco, unlike Sofia who was born here, came as a scrawny 16-year old immigrant from Naples. Their paths crossed when one day at the pizzeria's kitchen Sofia's mother was giving instructions to Marco, who started working there at night and on weekends while going to school on weekdays. Sofia's mother was strict, specially with her, but apparently Marco won her over before Sofia had anything to say about it. But it was meant to be. They continued the business after Sofia's mom passed on. They have a son and a daughter.
Why move to Las Vegas? But first, Sofia opened her phone's photo album. There was their Massachusetts' large front yard blanketed by thick snow and a huge bare tree in the middle. Next, she showed me the Vegas home they purchased not too long ago. It is Nevada, so the yard is all sand with one olive tree in the middle but their backyard had a brand new swimming pool with all the accessories of lounge chairs and a barbecue pit and water slide next to a cute diving board. She didn't stop there. There was a large living room but apparently she was proud of her brand new kitchen and laundry room with the latest washer/dryer combo. I sensed immediately that far from bragging, she wanted to point out to me that her new home cost less than a fourth of her over 100-year old home in Massachusetts and the property taxes were just as enticing as the Las Vegas strand. She apparently took pictures with her phone of old black and white photos of the old pizzeria started by her grand parents and various shots of family members from three generations.
Las Vegas is mid-way between Utah (where their son and his family live) and California where their daughter has decided to stay after going to school there. Now we know, "Why Las Vegas". The son was actually going to meet them at the Las Vegas airport.
Of her other photos she shared, she was proud to show her and Marco partying with the whole cast of the then very popular TV series (1999-2007), "The Sopranos". There she was with James Gandolfini's arm over her shoulder and another group photo with her and Marco bracketing Gandolfini sitting on a large leather sofa.
At some point Sofia wanted to buy me coffee, cake, whatever I liked from the Dunkin Donuts shop that was by then empty of customers. She begged to get me something but water was all I wanted. Marco started talking about their son who married a Chinese lady he met in college. The wedding was in Jakarta, Indonesia where their then soon-to-be-daughter-in-law was one of eleven children. Her father was the patriarch of a huge and influential Chinese family in Jakarta with all kinds of business holdings. Then Sofia interjected with her phone's photo album once more. Their two grand children - a mix of Italian and Chinese bloodline - are now in their teens. The thirteen year old grand daughter had the stunning features of Italian/Chinese beautifully melded together. Marco claimed that Michelangelo, had the Renaissance artist been living today, could not have imagined someone more beautiful. Indeed, the photo of the young girl supported his sentiments, albeit that of a grandfather. He had more to tell about their trip for the wedding to that part of the world they knew nothing about, especially about being met at the Jakarta airport by the bride's family in a stretched limo - something they thought was a scene only New York or Boston or LA could provide for a backdrop. Clearly not in that 11,000 island archipelago on the opposite side of the world.
The topics meandered from Caruso and Mario Lanza to the other TV series, "Everybody Loves Raymond", then on to Sophia Loren and Gina Lollobrigida, but we didn't talk about "The Godfather", politics and religion. The latter two are the currencies never to be exchanged among strangers.
Moments later after an hour had elapsed, the retired nurse from the other couple I met earlier came back around to tell me she got another text message from the airline that our flight was reset back to the original schedule. She thought I'd like to know that and I thanked her before she headed back to the gate.
Nothing got past Marco. He asked me who that was. I explained, to which he said in his heavily accented mix of Boston/Italian English, "She walked all the way back from Gate 34 to tell you that?" He elbowed Sofia and said, "What a guy, huh?"
We said our goodbyes. I told them how I enjoyed our conversation so much and likewise for them, they said. Marco handed me a couple of packets of hand sanitizer. Which brought us all back to the pressing reality of the moment, but we all laughed and we parted.
By the time I got to our gate the airline announced that the flight was reset once more
to the 1:10 departure. So, the airline ground personnel were going to have a paper airplane flying contest. Promptly, one lady personnel started distributing what she announced as top quality paper (they were 8-1/2 by 11 bond paper) to anyone willing to participate. I declined because I figured there were too many entrants already - all wannabe aeronautical engineers - and I cannot bear losing. There were three prizes - tiered First, Second, and Third based on flight distances - for $150, $100, $50 travel vouchers, respectively. That got a lot of people excited with contestants lined up on one side and spectators on another. Judging from the 'ohs' and 'ahs' it was as if people were watching the Wright brothers launched the first airplane at Kitty Hawk 117 years ago.
Such were some of the brief moments at the airport during the time of COVID 19.
It shall pass.
But not until the hysteria and paranoia subsides when folks begin to settle down and when paper products and canned goods begin to re-appear back on the store shelves.
Meanwhile, we can only hope that reason and normal modes of behavior return promptly. I'll be making the trip back to Boston and back to Texas again in several days so I am wishing for the best.
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