Waiting. Waiting in the International departures area at JFK airport in New York City. Spanish is swimming around me and tickling my ears like tiny fish colliding with my body in a salty sea. I am ready to immerse myself into the linguistic ocean of Argentina.
I want to be graceful. I want to be as smooth as George Clooney’s character in “Up in the Air”--effortless. I want to be one of those polished, facile travelers--every hair in place, flawless makeup, perfectly coordinated ensemble with matching luggage and handbag--who glides effortlessly through the airport and who literally floats through the aisles of the plane--
Instead I am slow and clumsy. The scruffy no makeup me trips over her own two feet, loses her passport and boarding pass in her purse, spills her coffee (and then her coke) down the front of her baggy shirt. That’s me.
There are cities in FoldintheMap that have populations smaller than the number of people now boarding this plane. My fellow temporary citizens and I are finding our homes on this flying city--and scoping out the neighbors.
In spite of all my planning, my cumbersome “carry-on” has become more of a hindrance than a help--all the things I carefully packed inside that I think I can’t live without for the next 18 hours are far, far above me in an overhead compartment.They might as well be on the moon.
The nice lady next to me on the plane speaks no English..She is a nervous flier but an effortless one. From nowhere, she produces a pair of noise canceling headphones and smoothly slips them on. I drop mine on the bulkhead floor in front of me; when I pick them up, they break.
After takeoff, I decide to retrieve my laptop from the moon. My seat is in the first row of the compartment, so when I stand, it’s like being on stage. I stand to smoothly open the overhead bin, where the “contents have shifted during takeoff”. All eyes are upon me as both my stuff and my seatmate’s come tumbling down around us and bounce on the floor. My shame is there for all to enjoy. Nice lady shakes her head a bit.
I retrieve everything and settle in . I’m getting tired. Maybe the $7.00 Amstel Light is kicking in a bit. A meal is served. Tortellini or Chicken? I go for the pasta remembering it’s always good to eat vegetarian while enroute. I flip my fork onto the floor before I’ve even taken a bite of my lettuce salad. Accustomed to school lunch cafeteria dining with a plastic spork, I remain unfazed. I calmly eat my salad with my plastic spoon. Empowered, I tackle the tortellini. Nice lady is shaking her head again and smiling ever so slightly. All is well until the drink cart comes by again--this time from behind--and my right hand holding the spoon gets bumped. The plastic spoon, covered with tortellini and red marinara sauce, sails up, splattering the emergency exit, landing on the floor. With finesse, I now polish off the tortellini with my plastic knife. I know nice lady is watching all this but she calmly keeps eating her chicken with her knife, a fork and a spoon, shaking her head ever so slightly.
Once the meal trays are gratefully taken away I stumble to the restroom. In the line, a brutally handsome Dominican man smiles at me and softly says something unintelligible in French: I respond in my best (worst?) Quebecois; He scowls and walks away.
Returning to my seat, I’m tired and wonder if sleep will elude me this night. I have no doubt if it comes that I will snore. and Loudly.
