To a bright new start

Airports make me want to write a novel. The experience is just so odd that it’s difficult to fully take in all that you’re seeing and feeling at the time. I suppose, then, that this post is just a compilation of my observations and experiences from Terminal 2 at JFK international airport early on New Year’s Day.

The trip to the airport began at a slightly crazy pace. I left my apartment at ten til 4, gave a quick nod to the security guard in the lobby, and headed to the corner of Broadway to hail a cab. It seems simple enough, hailing a cab, but it’s actually an art form in and of itself. After several failed attempts, and a car offering to take me only if I pay $100 cash, I hop in the back of a taxi after striking a bargain with the driver. I say “bargain”, but I’d like to make it clear that “bargain” here is a loosely used term. The driver was off duty, he had to get home to his partner by 5:00, he says. I say he could make it. He doesn’t believe me. But he takes me anyway. Before we even leave the city, there’s some kind of a traffic holdup and I think to myself, there’s no way this is happening to me. I start silently freaking out and my driver starts honking, all the while swearing to himself. It turns out the little “traffic holdup” was some woman who didn’t turn left at a right, so at the next stop light my driver feels the need to express his feelings on her not-turn in a louder than normal decibel to the woman who caused the issue in the first place. That was followed by a few explicit words and obscene hand gestures. Great start to a day. The rest of the drive to the airport is a breeze, and I find myself relaxing a little bit. We make it to the airport in half an hour, at which point I pay and wish my driver a happy new year and a safe trip home.

I still have to check my bag and get through security, so I think I’ll make it in enough time to maybe grab some coffee before I board. I don’t know what I’m thinking, because apparently no one else is flying Delta from JFK on New Year’s Day at 4:30 am. It doesn’t take me more than 10 minutes to check my bag and get through security. On my way into security, the TSA worker compliments me on my hat. I politely say thank you, and he continues, “Yeah, I was hoping to get someone to make me a hat like that. Maybe one with music notes on it.” This ensues conversation.

”Oh, are you a musician?”

“Yeah, yeah, I play saxophone”

“Oh! That’s awesome, I’m an opera singer”
"Really?? No way!"

This conversation was probably the most time-consuming thing this morning save for the taxi ride. It resulted in me getting his business card and an invitation to hear him play jazz someday.

“That would be nice” or something of the sort is what I reply. His name is Johnny. Yes, Johnny James Jazz III. Vocal Performance-ers, I could hardly believe my eyes. Johnny Jazz. There’s something to the name, don’t you think?

It’s not yet 5 am by the time I head for my gate. Thinking it might be a long walk, (at least another way to stall some time) I look for directions to Gate 20. Gate 20 is right before my eyes. When in the world has my departure gate been 20 feet away from the security station? Not when I was running to catch my connection in St. Louis when I moved to New York, or the time I was heading home and almost ended up in the wrong terminal. Only the time I’m 2 entire hours early for my plane. God has a sense of humor. The airport is practically deserted, and I’m one of two people currently sitting outside Gate 20. I feel ridiculous, and I’d like some coffee, so I look for a Starbucks. For your future knowledge, nothing in the airport opens until at least 5 am. I’m sitting outside of an airport Starbucks waiting for it to open, that’s how cool I am. And who should I see when Starbucks opens? The now infamous Johnny Jazz. Not my dance instructor, (which would have been insanely hilarious), but the TSA worker/saxophone player that wants a hat like mine with music notes on it. This is where I make awkward small talk and stutter over my responses because I’m not quite awake yet and all I can think about is how close I am to coffee and breakfast.

After settling into my new seat at Gate 20, a family of four walks right up and settles into four chairs across from me. The dad is middle-aged with graying hair, and his wife appears to be maybe 4 years his younger. Their children appear pre-teenage, but it’s apparent the family has traveled before. They give off the “traveller’s vibe”Almost immediately, the woman plugs her cell phone into one of those cell-charging towers that are conveniently located in the middle of an airline gate, and the man pulls out his laptop. Each child has either an electronic device or book in their lap to entertain them, and I’m fascinated by the sight. I remember that I’m in New York, and I’m surrounded by tourists probably visiting for the holidays. It is New Year’s Day, after all. A younger woman walks up and takes her place to my right. She gives me the one-over and settles into the chair one seat away. I hadn’t realized that my stuff had taken up 3 chairs of space, so I graciously move my laptop onto my lap. Not that the open chair will do much, because people never sit immediately next to you unless they’re sufficiently awkward or have no sense of personal space. As soon as the thought is out of my head, a woman walks up and takes her place beside me. I always speak too soon. Her breakfast sandwich smells like ham and makes me feel nauseas. A woman in her early 20’s walks past me and I notice her shoes. Toms. I love Toms. She pulls out a yoga mat and begins stretching on the floor. The things people do in airports are beyond my comprehension at times. I admire that she has the gusto to begin yoga in the middle of an airport and am befuddled that she actually had the space for a yoga mat in her carry-on. But above all, my favorite airport people are the first-class fliers. The women who wear pearl earrings and cashmere sweaters are often the source of my envy. Maybe it’s my recent obsession with cashmere, but I’ve always wanted to be a classy flier. I never fly at the right time. My flights are either too early or too late, which makes glasses and no makeup a necessity. Someday, though, I’ll wear pearl earrings and a cashmere sweater, and I’ll feel like the classiest flier in the world.

My mind wanders to the people in front of me who have each shown up individually, but appear to know each other. By the time the 4^th person in their party shows up, I’ve heard the one lady say “I waited for 3 trains for you guys and you never showed up, so I left without you” a grand total of 3 times. From their conversation, I gather that they were at some sort of New Years celebration, and after hearing “man” “street” and “piss all over”, I deduce that they were at the Times Square ball drop, and judging by the bags under their eyes, not one of them has had a wink of sleep. It fascinates me, the celebration of a new year. I understand the logic of such a holiday, too. Bringing in a new year with new opportunities for change and adaptations is undoubtedly something to be excited about. I suppose that’s why we make resolutions. To provide the motivation for such change and adaptation.

Resolution, as a noun, is an interesting concept. The word resolution, according to the Oxford English Dictionary means, 

 "The ability of a device to respond to small differences in input and to indicate or represent them accurately in output; a measure of this, expressed as the smallest difference so distinguishable."

The idea of setting a list of standards each year to which we hold ourselves accountable is the biggest set up for failure. Eat healthier, lose weight, spend more time with family, etc... they're great standards, sure, but how often do we truly live up to our new years' resolutions? By December 31st the next year, they've been long forgotten, no matter how many post-it notes you wrote it on, or how many times you framed them for all to see.

Where do we fail in resolution-keeping, then? Maybe it begins with the conception of the resolution itself. The flaw is the intent behind our resolutions. Resolutions are written largely with the intent of representing them accurately in output - the second half of the definition. However, little regard is given to the part that precedes that - the difference in input. Our habits will not change overnight; and it would be impossible to expect our bodies to start producing different outcomes merely because we tell it to. And the word itself by definition is the ability to respond to differences in input. So maybe the problem doesn’t come from the motive behind writing the resolution, but the way we measure the success of a resolution. If a resolution is to be successful, by very definition, we should measure the ability of our self to respond to the changes that we instill, instead of deciding whether or not we completed the task. Instead of noting the places we failed and the resolutions that we didn’t fully accomplish, maybe we should focus on the minute, every-day resolutions that ultimately lead to our betterment. They say that it’s the journey, not the goal, that matters.

I’m not saying that one shouldn’t make resolutions. In fact, I find them amusing. If you were to ask me what my resolution for this year is, I’d probably think for a moment and then respond, “it’s to learn how to live more fully and love more deeply than I have before”. But that’s a life-long goal for me, not just the resolution of 2012. However, the input begins here, and it began a long time ago when my own Journey began.

Naturally, I’m placed on a flight with many children, most of which are exhausted and cranky, and the first half hour of my flight is filled with crying babies and irritated parents. I’m lucky enough to sit next to a nice family with two young ones, and an older girl that I assume is also theirs. The little girl sitting next to me is an adorable toe-head blonde that reminds me of a girl I used to babysit. She can’t be more than 6 years old, and she smiles at me when I sit down. She’s not a spoiled brat, but it’s apparent that she’s granted almost her every wish. I have a hard time not judging parenting styles, but I suppose that’s just another thing I’m learning.

Whether your New Year’s resolution is to manage your time better, lose weight, or obtain a cashmere sweater, I hope that the New Year brings you happiness and provides you with the opportunity to focus more and more on the journey that awaits.

Dreaming,

♥ Emily