The agent at the Air Canada desk wore red from head to toe, the exact hue of the maple leaf on the Canadian flag. Her hair was shiny and neat, with not a strand out of place. She had the serene countenance of a Madonna. She took Dave’s passport, printed his ticket, and checked his bag.
Then it was my turn. I smiled and made eye contact. I am a happy traveler. It’s a great day for flying. With every airport employee on the alert for indicators of a person who might create a disturbance or bomb a plane, I was aiming to project an air of cheerful normality. “It’s nice and quiet in here today,” I remarked.
“It’s early,” Madonna said. “It gets very busy later.”
Dave put my roller bag on the scale.
I am a confident human with good people skills who loves nine-hour flights. I handed her my passport. In the process my elbow contacted a plexiglass display. Brochures cascaded to the floor. “Sorrysorrysorry!” I said. “I’m a butterfingers!”
“Think nothing of it,” she said.
Dave and I retrieved and restacked the brochures. Madonna handed me my ticket. “Take care,” she said, and pointed us in the direction of the security line.
“We’re definitely in an airport,” Dave said as we left.
I’m a hot mess when I fly. Dave admits to feeling uncomfortable about holding onto his tickets and passport, but he masks much better than I can. Managing documents, getting through security, finding gates, paying for things, walking in the correct direction…these are activities that I can handle okay in most circumstances. However, when I’m especially nervous, worried about my plane falling from the sky, say, something happens to my proprioception. My fingers and arms and legs go hazy and drift.
I’d knocked over the display, but at least I hadn’t dropped my passport or ticket. So far. On this leg of the journey.
We cleared security without triggering a pat-down and located our departure gate. Then we went to a nearby place for breakfast. In the process of sitting down for my coffee Americano and Sacher torte—the last pastry of Vienna!—I tangled my right foot in my left sock. As I disentangled I bumped our table, causing a mini tempest in our coffee cups, but fortunately no spillage. “Close one, Jean!” Dave said.
I can’t wait to get on the plane and start Season Two of Succession. I am a happy traveler.
Dave is used to it, but my clumsy tendencies must be annoying for the people movers at the airport. You’d think I’d have adjusted better, given that for the past ten days I’d been a person being moved constantly. Through castles, concert halls, and cafés; onto and off of trams, trains, and boats; to the cash registers of gift shops and bookstores. I’d mostly been able to avoid irritating others in a major way except in the airports of Boston, Toronto, and Vienna. Where I had repeatedly dropped my documents, presented the wrong tickets, tripped on the travelator, and failed to scan any item without human assistance.
We settled into seats at the gate. The caffeine and sugar had pepped me up. Way up. Jittery might be the word. Perhaps I’d grown too accustomed to the teeny cups of Viennese coffee (just four ounces, who can function on four ounces of coffee?) and the Americano had been too much. One-and Two-and Three-and Four! Happy! Travel! Normal girl! I tapped my toes and snapped my book pages in rhythm, loud enough to generate a small sigh from Dave.
As we lined up at last for the jet bridge I was thrilled to see Madonna, who had appeared to help sort us travelers into zones one through five. As she’d predicted, things had become very busy. Her hair was still sleek, and her face was calm.
“Hello again!” I said.
“Good morning,” she said. “Enjoy your flight.”
I will enjoy my flight! I am a happy traveler. Ahead there was a final obstacle, a pair of ticket scanners and turnstiles. My pulse ticked upwards. I am a competent person! I have successfully scanned many items. But I got the ticket a little crooked; it refused to scan. The man staffing the entrance told me to try again. My jittery fingers got the ticket going crooked in the opposite direction. The staffer reached a hand out to help, but before he could straighten it, a miracle happened. The light turned green and the turnstile unlocked. “You’re good to go,” he said.
I glanced back as I started down the bridge. Madonna was watching me, her mouth quirked. I was, for the moment, truly a happy traveler.
the jeanSpace 