Love in the Time of Terror
“You don’t need to come to the gate. I can just get out here.”
Dad circled the parking garage. Level after level was full so he turned up the ramp to our fifth and final chance.
“No,” he said. “I’ll come in with you.”
Finally, we found a spot and he waited in line with me until I got my boarding pass.
“Well, I guess this is goodbye,” I said, reaching out for a hug.
“We have a few minutes. Let’s get a cup of coffee.”
“Are you sure? I know you have to get to work.”
“I’ve got time. Come on, I’ll buy you a croissant.”
So we sat down at a fake Parisian café in the main concourse and Dad sipped from his Styrofoam cup while we talked about nothing in particular. After I finished eating I dusted the crumbs off my lap and started collecting my carry-on.
“Well, I guess it’s about that time,” I told him.
“I’ll walk you to the gate.”
“Seriously, Dad. You don’t have to. I can make it on my own.”
“I’ll walk you to the gate.”
I was heading to Ireland on my first adventure overseas. Dad was proud of me, but I was traveling alone so, naturally, he was a little worried. When we got to the gate I said, “Thanks for walking me.” I didn’t want to admit it, but I was a little scared. I swallowed back a few tears. “This will be cool, Dad, just wait until you see my pictures.” He didn’t say anything, but his eyes got misty. He gave me a brisk hug and walked away just in time.
That was the year 2000 and (though I didn’t know it at the time) it was our last send-off before the terrorists ruined my father’s ability to roam the airport freely. When I was a kid, strolling past the different gates used to be one of Dad’s favorite activities. Whenever we traveled as a family, we always arrived three hours early because he was afraid we’d miss our flight. So, we soaked up the time walking around the terminal, watching people come off the plane.
Always the scientist, Dad may have enjoyed analyzing the different sociological schema that cropped up at the airport. But I like to think he was simply moved by the reunions. One cannot help but get choked up when a toddler runs into the arms of a man in a business suit, or when two lovers, long separated, clutch each other in a teary embrace.
It was there, at the airport gates, where I began to form my initial perceptions of romance (or maybe they were misperceptions). My impressions were further skewed by watching many Hollywood blockbusters in which the hero races to the gate just in time to reunite with the woman of his dreams. I wanted nothing more than a man who would meet me there, flowers in hand, and confess his love for me while the music swelled and work-weary travelers looked on.
Eventually it happened. My junior year of college my then-boyfriend, JJ, picked me up when I returned from spring break. I stepped off the plane to find him standing there with a goofy smile on his face and a mixed bouquet it his hands. Our relationship was in those blissful, early stages when the mere sight of each other ignites an explosion of hormones that make you totally incapable of being reasonable. As I approached he was moved to tears. “I missed you so much,” he said, sniffling. Then he put his arms around me and kissed me.
For a while I kept that experience filed in my mental archives under “Most Romantic Moment of My Life.” But over the course of several months I learned that JJ actually cried rather frequently: watching a sunset, opening a gift from his grandma, any time he had bad news, or whenever we watched Mr. Holland’s Opus. Once the novelty of his tears wore off, the romance surrounding our airport moment disappeared as well. It turned out that the real novelty was JJ’s seeming devotion. That was the first time he picked me up at the airport, and it was the last. But I guess that’s the difference between love and romance: the constancy.
I can’t blame JJ, though. We were young and commitment is terrifying, especially in your early twenties. I have since learned that we can’t judge those who are afraid of commitment, no matter what their age, because they are the ones who realize how important it is. I think that’s why women with devoted fathers tend to stay single for so long: our dads set such a high standard for commitment, brave men are hard to find, and we can’t seem to settle for less than the airport gate.
Now I’m in my thirties and, strangely, still taking trips over spring break. This year I went to Chicago. Though I enjoyed spending time with my friends, I was tired and struggling with low self-esteem. Airport security further exacerbated my feelings when they confiscated my toothpaste. (In this day and age, anyone carrying more than three ounces of liquid can be considered a terrorist.) The security guard halted my bag as it went through the x-ray. “Is this yours?” she asked, holding up my tube of Crest. “Yes,” I replied.
“It cannot go forward.”
“Um . . . OK.” She kept holding it out so I reached up to take it.
At that point she whisked her hand away and snapped at me. “It is too big! It cannot go forward from this point!” Clearly, I was a security risk. How dare I attempt to travel the United States armed with such minty freshness? I grabbed my bag and hurried through the line before she could discover the Q-tips I use to bludgeon people.
Throughout the trip her words kept echoing in my head, your toothpaste is too big . . . your toothpaste is too big. Maybe I was just overly sensitive, but I really took it personally. My toothpaste simply wasn’t good enough to “move forward,” and therefore neither was I. Totally unlovable. I was not good enough for anyone. Ever.
Fortunately, I mostly recovered by the time I got home. After the plane landed I took the train to the main concourse. When I came up the escalator, I had to sigh. There was Dad, just where I expected him to be, standing by the fountain wearing his content, closed-lip smile.
“Did you have a good trip?” he asked.
“Pretty good,” I said. “They confiscated my toothpaste.”
“Why?”
“Because of the terrorists.”
“Oh.”
“I didn’t even think toothpaste was a liquid.”
“It’s not,” he said. “It’s an emulsion.”
He took my bag off my shoulder, and we walked to the car.
Dad circled the parking garage. Level after level was full so he turned up the ramp to our fifth and final chance.
“No,” he said. “I’ll come in with you.”
Finally, we found a spot and he waited in line with me until I got my boarding pass.
“Well, I guess this is goodbye,” I said, reaching out for a hug.
“We have a few minutes. Let’s get a cup of coffee.”
“Are you sure? I know you have to get to work.”
“I’ve got time. Come on, I’ll buy you a croissant.”
So we sat down at a fake Parisian café in the main concourse and Dad sipped from his Styrofoam cup while we talked about nothing in particular. After I finished eating I dusted the crumbs off my lap and started collecting my carry-on.
“Well, I guess it’s about that time,” I told him.
“I’ll walk you to the gate.”
“Seriously, Dad. You don’t have to. I can make it on my own.”
“I’ll walk you to the gate.”
I was heading to Ireland on my first adventure overseas. Dad was proud of me, but I was traveling alone so, naturally, he was a little worried. When we got to the gate I said, “Thanks for walking me.” I didn’t want to admit it, but I was a little scared. I swallowed back a few tears. “This will be cool, Dad, just wait until you see my pictures.” He didn’t say anything, but his eyes got misty. He gave me a brisk hug and walked away just in time.
That was the year 2000 and (though I didn’t know it at the time) it was our last send-off before the terrorists ruined my father’s ability to roam the airport freely. When I was a kid, strolling past the different gates used to be one of Dad’s favorite activities. Whenever we traveled as a family, we always arrived three hours early because he was afraid we’d miss our flight. So, we soaked up the time walking around the terminal, watching people come off the plane.
Always the scientist, Dad may have enjoyed analyzing the different sociological schema that cropped up at the airport. But I like to think he was simply moved by the reunions. One cannot help but get choked up when a toddler runs into the arms of a man in a business suit, or when two lovers, long separated, clutch each other in a teary embrace.
It was there, at the airport gates, where I began to form my initial perceptions of romance (or maybe they were misperceptions). My impressions were further skewed by watching many Hollywood blockbusters in which the hero races to the gate just in time to reunite with the woman of his dreams. I wanted nothing more than a man who would meet me there, flowers in hand, and confess his love for me while the music swelled and work-weary travelers looked on.
Eventually it happened. My junior year of college my then-boyfriend, JJ, picked me up when I returned from spring break. I stepped off the plane to find him standing there with a goofy smile on his face and a mixed bouquet it his hands. Our relationship was in those blissful, early stages when the mere sight of each other ignites an explosion of hormones that make you totally incapable of being reasonable. As I approached he was moved to tears. “I missed you so much,” he said, sniffling. Then he put his arms around me and kissed me.
For a while I kept that experience filed in my mental archives under “Most Romantic Moment of My Life.” But over the course of several months I learned that JJ actually cried rather frequently: watching a sunset, opening a gift from his grandma, any time he had bad news, or whenever we watched Mr. Holland’s Opus. Once the novelty of his tears wore off, the romance surrounding our airport moment disappeared as well. It turned out that the real novelty was JJ’s seeming devotion. That was the first time he picked me up at the airport, and it was the last. But I guess that’s the difference between love and romance: the constancy.
I can’t blame JJ, though. We were young and commitment is terrifying, especially in your early twenties. I have since learned that we can’t judge those who are afraid of commitment, no matter what their age, because they are the ones who realize how important it is. I think that’s why women with devoted fathers tend to stay single for so long: our dads set such a high standard for commitment, brave men are hard to find, and we can’t seem to settle for less than the airport gate.
Now I’m in my thirties and, strangely, still taking trips over spring break. This year I went to Chicago. Though I enjoyed spending time with my friends, I was tired and struggling with low self-esteem. Airport security further exacerbated my feelings when they confiscated my toothpaste. (In this day and age, anyone carrying more than three ounces of liquid can be considered a terrorist.) The security guard halted my bag as it went through the x-ray. “Is this yours?” she asked, holding up my tube of Crest. “Yes,” I replied.
“It cannot go forward.”
“Um . . . OK.” She kept holding it out so I reached up to take it.
At that point she whisked her hand away and snapped at me. “It is too big! It cannot go forward from this point!” Clearly, I was a security risk. How dare I attempt to travel the United States armed with such minty freshness? I grabbed my bag and hurried through the line before she could discover the Q-tips I use to bludgeon people.
Throughout the trip her words kept echoing in my head, your toothpaste is too big . . . your toothpaste is too big. Maybe I was just overly sensitive, but I really took it personally. My toothpaste simply wasn’t good enough to “move forward,” and therefore neither was I. Totally unlovable. I was not good enough for anyone. Ever.
Fortunately, I mostly recovered by the time I got home. After the plane landed I took the train to the main concourse. When I came up the escalator, I had to sigh. There was Dad, just where I expected him to be, standing by the fountain wearing his content, closed-lip smile.
“Did you have a good trip?” he asked.
“Pretty good,” I said. “They confiscated my toothpaste.”
“Why?”
“Because of the terrorists.”
“Oh.”
“I didn’t even think toothpaste was a liquid.”
“It’s not,” he said. “It’s an emulsion.”
He took my bag off my shoulder, and we walked to the car.
posted by Alice | 3:39 PM
1 Comments:
I love that story. It is so like your dad to know that toothpaste is an emulsion. He really misses being able to put you on the plane himself instead of leaving you at the security line.
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