From the Other Side of Airport Security

Relationships for Drifters and the Promises Made When Saying Goodbye

Amid the beeps of metal detectors and the soft shuffled hum of sock-covered feet, I find myself once again on the other side of airport security in San Francisco, turning to spot my loved ones through the crowd. This is where most all of my one-way plane tickets have begun.

Shiny bald spots mingle with the jungles of untamable curls as the tops of heads bounce along the lower half of my vision, every so often popping up to turn a pair of squinting eyes in my direction. I don’t blame them, I know full well my sporadic waving paired with my perfectly practiced disheveled travel look are a duo that easily catch the curious eye.

Normally I try my best to blend into the crowd, as my years of solo travel have trained me to do so. But this is the one instant that I don’t care.

Let the whole damn world stare if they want, as long as I get to wave that one last goodbye.

There was a cold snap the weekend Domizia came from Rome to visit, dropping the temperature in Brussels into even colder levels than its normal frigid range. We had left my apartment once earlier that morning, only to venture as far as the corner-shop bakery to purchase a freshly steaming quiche and some pain au chocolat to satisfy our sweet tooth. It was now well into the evening and the sun was casting long shadows across the pallet my flatmate and I had turned into a dining room table, with the remnants of that morning’s quiche scattered in crumbs along with any plans we had held of leaving the house that day.

We had successfully spent the entire day wrapped in oversized scarfs munching on baked goods while swapping stories and remarking on the peculiar decorations of my apartment as we hid from the freezing temperatures outside.

The place was eccentric in every sense of the word, affording us a plethora of opportunities to interpret its decor as one does when confounded by the modern art section of their favorite museum. We began our commentary with the geometric sun my flatmate and I had painted on one of the walls in the hopes of bringing some warmth to Brussels, its slight tilt adding character and driving my German friends mad. We talked about the portraits scattered above the fireplace, each one depicting a different face my flatmate had discovered during her time living in Cambodia. To complement the photography exhibit, we hung a few of our rainy afternoon paintings around the place. Her Picasso-inspired style mixed nicely with my bold (and clearly graphic design-influenced) pieces. To finish our tour of the peculiarities of the apartment, Domizia and I turned our attention to the assortment of cigarette butts, pencil shavings, dying flower petals, and empty wine glasses that had taken up residence on what masqueraded as a proper dining table, right next to our leftover quiche.

It was a day well spent touring our exhibit of an apartment. But, naturally, I felt some guilt for keeping my friend inside all day, considering there are only so many walls and quirks of my apartment to stare upon. I turned to apologize to Domizia for the umpteenth time for the uneventful plans our day had decided to take on, telling her how truly sorry I was that she had traveled so far only to sit inside. But she interrupted me.

“You know I’ve visited Brussels before, right? I didn’t come here to see the city, I can do that anytime. I came to see you.”

It was a simple concept, this notion of intentionally traveling not to see a new city but rather an old friend, and yet I still needed the spunky southern Italian to spell it out for me. As a traveler, I often get so caught up in the dazzle and draw of a new destination that it negates my desire to return to a place I have already discovered.

Leaving becomes the constant while returning turns into the variable, an equation that often proves challenging when it comes to forming, growing, and maintaining relationships.

Being able to give as well as receive is essential to having a healthy relationship, no matter the stage in life. It’s easy to take when I live as a full-time traveler, dropping into someone’s life for a few days—take their couch space, take their freezer food, take their time and attention, and then pop back out as quickly as I came. But how do I give back to my loved ones?

It’s as simple as Domizia’s late afternoon insight. I return. I give the promise that no matter how many times I leave, no matter how far I go or how long I go for, I will always come back.

As someone who lives for discovering someplace new, to return to a place I already know for someone is the strongest way I know to show my love for them.

So I find myself once again on the other side of airport security.

I’ve fought my way to the bottom of my bag to find the stray tube of toothpaste, I’ve redressed myself after local security required stripping away shoes and jewelry, and I’ve finally relocated the pocket I had frantically shoved my passport into. The travel high is setting in as I search through the departures, my eyes skimming for my gate as well as gathering location inspiration. My whole body is buzzing with excitement, begging to take off running to catch my plane. But I still have one last thing to do before I can set my restless feet free.

On tiptoes, I bounce just above the undulating crowds washing through the security lines to catch sight of my loved ones on the other side. They’ve bravely painted smiles underneath tear-stained eyes, waiting patiently for me to finish our unspoken parting ritual.

I send both arms up waving wildly above my head. It’s my signal, my promise to them that no matter what, I will always look back, I will always return to both them and San Francisco. In that simple last wave, I make my promise that this hunger for the open road will never overcome the power they have to call me home.