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| Gate 45, Warsaw Chopin Airport. |
The grey areas of life, those muted tones between black and white, right and wrong, if only they were as easy to navigate as the deep orange accents and scattered posts where bold white numbers label the gates. Although maybe these color bursts would be as offensive in my moral consciousness as they are here, breaking up the otherwise monotone scheme. I’d rather move like the clouds, slipping softly through smudged skies, grey like the walls and rows of metal chairs whose polka dot design is illusion – the punched-out holes only show through to drab carpet beyond.
Of course, being situated at the very last gate, the fingertip of the airport’s spindly arm, adds to the isolation. As I lug my 25-lb. baby blue Jansport backpack down the long corridor, the advertisements for duty free purchases, snacks and, naturally, the omnipresent McDonalds leap off their posters, loud English letters attracting international consumers. But when I acquiesce to their offer, my exchange with the barista at Empik Café proves less than accommodating to my non-Polish speaking self. I utter barely three words: small black coffee, simply wanting something to stave off the fatigue that has followed my flight across the continents. She seems dissatisfied with my request, stringing together words in Polish as I slowly shook my head.
“With milk. Café Latte. Americano?” she queries, voice heavily accented.
“No, just coffee. Black.” I repeat. And “small,” when she asks again about the size. “Oh, and can I pay in Euro?”
“Yes, but I give you Polish zloty for the change.”
When my coffee rings up under €3, I pull a half liter of sparkling water from the cooler in front of the register, using the single €5 bill tucked in my wallet to cover my purchase and hopefully provide enough caffeine-induced energy to propel the last leg of my 20+ hour marathon journey. Mostly because the Polish change is irrelevant to me, I toss the remaining cents onto the tip plate and carry my dripping cup of coffee back down the hall to the still empty gate.
In A Year in the World, Frances Mayes wrote that travel allows release because “you are insignificant to the life of the new place. When you travel you become invisible if you want […] When travelling, you have the delectable possibility of not understanding a word of what is said to you.”
Perhaps I’m not as seasoned as Mayes in navigating countries and tongues; perhaps I’m still too fresh from the coddling comfort of Christmas break at home in Oregon. Nonetheless, insignificant and invisible are not normally attributes I strive to achieve. And not understanding what is being said usually proves more frustrating than liberating.
But perhaps travel itself is somehow separated from the limbo of layover – this strange in between of times and places, whose experience, yes, aura, is so closely connected to what awaits after the next flight but also to its present location.
In Chicago, for example, I was happy to play the obsolete observer, though the bustling crowds were upbeat, and my cell phone kept me company – a last round of texts fired off over the hour before the device would hibernate for the next six months.
Now, however, the silence is not soothing. Far from loved ones, I crave connection, not anonymity. If pure waiting is purgatory, I am relieved there’s an end. If separation is Hell, I am beyond thankful for Heaven and, more so, for the One who has promised to never leave, even when a journey is solo or an airport lonely.
Slowly, the differentiation between exterior and interior has heightened – artificial lights steadying the hue at Gate 45, while outside details disappear into darkness. I’ll be on my way again shortly, headed this time not for another round of waiting but at last for arrival, the journey complete.
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