Destinations

Here's a little secret: it doesn't matter where you're going. It matters how you feel about where you're going.

Sure, we'd all rather go to Hawaii than Tulsa, all things being equal. But show me a woman flying to see her first grandbaby in Tulsa, and I'll show you someone who will turn down a free round-trip to the Big Island. It doesn't matter if you're in Oz if there's no place like home in Kansas.

How do I know?

I am the invisible woman, one of the thousands of middle-aged pantsuits connecting the dots of airports every day. LaGuardia's Terminal B is my second home. I can pack ten outfits and three books in a carry-on, I can sprint in heels between terminal B and C without missing my layover, and the flight attendants on the LaGuardia-Denver flight know I drink seltzer water, no ice.

When I'm not Facetiming with the two goofballs bouncing off my own four walls in Brooklyn, I sit in the terminal and watch the best show on earth: human beings at the airport.

Folks, it's people-watching at its finest. You catch people at their best and worst: starry-eyed honeymooners jetting off toward the equator; jet-lagged parents hauling jet-lagged children (and car seats and strollers) to baggage claim; jubilant sports teams; bereaved families.

Thanks to my frequent flyer miles, I've become something of a detective. I can usually guess where someone is going after a little sleuthing. Sometimes it's too easy: Disney shirts are a dead giveaway, as are college t-shirts and sports merchandise. I've gotten pretty good at recognizing accents, too.

I was in need of a distraction that Christmas Eve morning when I kissed my goofballs goodbye and headed to LaGuardia. A work emergency meant I'd be flying solo over Christmas--literally and figuratively. As I loitered at my gate--because I always arrive an hour early--I wallowed in self-pity. "I'll Be Home for Christmas" was playing in a nearby shop, and the irony stung.

A middle-aged woman pushing an elderly woman in a wheelchair passed me, and I had them pegged even before they stopped at the gate for San Juan. This case was open and shut: a mother and daughter flying back to Puerto Rico to be with family for Christmas.

Here came my next mystery: a Latino boy and a black girl, hands locked together. (Well, they were young adults, but when you're 45, anyone younger than 30 is a kid.)

Newlyweds. I'd bet my noise-cancelling headphones on it. The girl was playing with the ring on her finger as if it hadn't been there long, and the boy was staring at her as if she was the answer to every question he'd ever asked. Their feet barely touched the shining linoleum as they floated into the waiting area for San Juan. This boy was taking his bride to see his island roots--I was willing to bet my last protein bar.

The happy couple sat down a few seats away from the elderly woman and her daughter, who were talking a mile a minute.

I admit, I eavesdropped. My grasp of Spanish is loose at best, but I caught the English word "bumped" and saw the extra lines anxiety had etched on their sweet faces.

The middle-aged daughter left her mother and approached the gentleman at the check-in desk. He listened and smiled regretfully, shaking his head. My heart sank, reading between the lines: December 24th, an overbooked flight. Those ladies would be celebrating Navidad on the wrong island this year.

Nearby, the new husband was leading his wife through a slow salsa as she laughed and stepped on his toes. They were oblivious to the crowds, the noise, and the wintry mix hovering over NYC.

The woman returned to her elderly mother, and there was another loud, anxious conference. The boy's head swiveled their direction, and, still hand in hand with his wife, he came over. The conversation got louder, more animated, and the boy broke off to talk to the gentleman at the desk.

And gentleman he was. I could tell, even if I couldn't hear what bad news he was breaking. Again he listened sympathetically, and again he shook his head, somehow managing to juggle an intercom at the same time. Again my heart sank.

The boy and girl were whispering to each other, foreheads touching. The boy seemed to be asking his new wife something important, his glance flicking from her face to the two older ladies.

I admit, I moved one row of chairs closer to the action. This was more than a mystery to be solved; the little drama being enacted in terminal B had drawn me in.

All four approached the check-in desk a third time. The employee--a gentleman to the core--had by now achieved sainthood in my mind. His smile never faltered as the two kids and two ladies talked and gestured all at once. He examined tickets, tapped furiously at the computer, and made a phone call. His smile widened, and he nodded.

This was better than TV. If I couldn't have my Christmas, I wanted these ladies to have theirs.

The mother and daughter were thanking the newlyweds in rapid-fire Spanish.

"Bendición," said the boy, gallant as a knight in shining armor.

The elderly woman pressed her hand to her heart. "Dios los bendiga."

The boy and girl picked up their luggage and--I guessed--returned to a postage-stamp apartment somewhere on the fringes of NYC. (There'd be a comped flight tomorrow for the lovebirds, thanks to the gentleman at the check-in desk.) They beamed as if they were heading off to a 5-star resort.

Because here's a little secret I've learned: it doesn't matter where you're going. It matters how you feel about where you're going.

END