The Airport

While many people despise and loath it, I have to say that the airport happens to be one of my most favorite places on the planet. Probably any airport. If I find myself in one, I'm usually heading off to a land where I have wanted to go, meeting up with old friends or new ones, or travelling by myself to enjoy the my own company. Where I'm welcoming someone or shedding tears, I crave it intensely. I am so devoted to the airport and airplanes, I dated a guy going to flight school for a couple of months too long so that I could pick his brain on the subject of flight.

Where did this all start? When did my love for travel begin? And for me, it's not just the destination I enjoy the most, it's the actual traveling---the buzz of all the different languages, the international gates, passport in hand, ticket, boarding the aircraft, and knowing it's going to take off, and soon enough I'll have my iPod plugged into my ears, a glass of red, and the excitement of finding out which movies will be played on board. I crave traveling with British Airways so I can have my own personal set in front of me--all the films I have been meaning to watch are magically in front of me, and I get to waste the next 7 to 9 hours watching whatever I want, and getting tipsy. This, for me, is heaven. Call me simple, but these are the pleasures that I enjoy.

Of course, there are the people you meet, that you keep in touch with, making plans to meet up again soon but with a different scenery. Will they be the same when you meet again? What adventures will happen this time around. You can never be completely sure.

Since the beginning of this year, I have travelled to Europe twice and discovered something very important. Usually, when I travel for a period of time, I'm always happy to come home. I'm always happy to land in the Vancouver International Airport, I'm pleased to see the mountains, and relieved to lie down in my own bed. Now.....when I arrive home, I feel a sense of hopelessness--I'm suddenly back to same old same old, and my experiences seem as faded as old wallpaper. I have never lived or worked overseas, but the yearning to do so starts to eat away at me. What would I be able to do for work? Where would I go? How can I do all of this? Will it work? It's all risk. But then I wonder what would I be risking the most: staying home where it is safe, and where I pretty much know what I'm going to get? That's alright if I try a new Starbucks that opened on another block, but there is something to be said about moving to a completely different environment, allowing the fear and excitement to enter, and not having the answers I would usually have if I were at home. I would risk comfort to hear accents around me, to be forced to learn another language, to take the plunge. There is nothing holding me back but me.

A few years ago, I decided that every couple of years had to sum up to an exciting chapter that will become my book of memoirs. I've spent many years reading about others and their exciting lives. Now I'm curious to see how my story will go when I pick up my own book in the years to come.