I arrived at Berlin’s Tegel airport at eleven in the morning on a Saturday. The American Tourist suitcase by my side, the previous year’s Christmas gift from my mother, was bursting at the seams. Standing there, slumped, hand in my pocket, I had a heightened sense of awareness by the fact that I was there, finally, after having heard all about Kathleen’s formative years: the history of the family in the East and their lives—her limited experiences—before the wall came down. She was twenty-four now.
Mumbling this and that, I wondered where she was. In America, questions were pummeled with logical, righteous answers. I’d even been nicknamed “the problem solver” at the family-owned company where I had worked, but now, things were going to be different. There were the unknowns of new territory to contend with—I’d have to accept the tacit uncertainty. It was crazy, but so what?
Through the airport window I watched the foreign taxis make their entrance and exit. On top of my bag my Motorola phone did a balancing act. I checked it. Still nothing. With a careful eye on my luggage, I shuffled through a nearby set of electronic doors and, once outside, took in the deep air that had looked so uniquely appealing from the airport window. In the chill for no more than a few seconds and, again, I began to think about her.
When she wore that green sweater, especially, not a fancy Cardigan, but that comfortable-looking, nifty sweater, I knew there was something about her. On the sidewalk near Hunter College, and then after on the six train downtown, I had realized the discovery: that clever combination of brown hair, fair skin, and emerald. The inside mattered first, though: deference to my amusing anecdotes and words that made me think. It’s what kept me coming back for more—date nights, dinner with friends, the MET, Central Park walks, riding across the Brooklyn Bridge on rented blue city bikes, pizza and bagels and what we found in New York that we loved more than in any other city in the world. If fate hadn’t showed up at Jaralyn’s party, who knows whose arms either of us would’ve wound up in? That we were still grateful in spite of an unfortunate departure back home to Europe for her finance career was a testament to our lasting commitment.
LUFTHANSA FLIGHT 450. I peered incessantly at the arrival gate door. Thoughts of our happy life surfaced. Time passed. The lethargy was beginning to wear me down to a fraction of myself. If I had my druthers, I’d have collapsed right there on the floor; things could be extreme like that. “I need a drink,” I said aloud, as if she were right there next me. What do you want, honey? Nearly twenty-four hours ago, we were sitting together at the breakfast bar: I drank coffee while she ate cherry tomatoes with Brie on dark bread. Separate flights, she had rationalized, would add mystery. Not to mention hers was being paid for by her employer. Is this what forever felt like?
“Want a gum?” … “I’m feeling squeezy.” Tightening my baseball cap, I let out a warm chuckle. Often, I would make the correction, but when the innocent look and the slight accent I downright adored distracted in such a pleasant manner, it just wasn’t worth it, despite her being adamant about wanting to speak English flawlessly.
Three hours later. The grayness of the season fashioned heavy faces upon worn-out passengers. I went over to Kaiser’s. Saying nothing, I purchased a bottle of water. It produced no relief for my slim, thirty-year-old body. Still, I had rapture and tales from a year of romantic interludes. But this seemed only to fuel the anticipation.
While fiddling with the zipper on my jacket, I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, a complacent-looking, petite brunette. She had an angled bob haircut and an upper body swimming in fabric. Beside her sat a young man, leaning up against the large airport window. I glanced over at the two of them. Setting her in a fixed gaze, I perceived the act as neither an infatuation nor a lustful gesture but rather an innocuous show of interest in an ordinary woman, someone modest even, in her mannerisms. That’s the best I could tell.
“Was läuft morgen Abend im Kino?” she said.
“Das weiß ich nicht,” the young man replied.
The subtle movements, the soft tone—could she be Kathleen’s sister? While he I had never ventured out of my comfort zone before, I wondered, anyway, about life beyond one`s home base and the confines of my small existence. This could be my brave new world.… With the accidental drop of a purse, I took odd delight in monitoring their activities. I even turned to look away at one point, almost as a form of punishment. The noise over the loud speaker, the vapid travelers filing in and out, began to irk me.
I walked the floor near my arrival gate, evaluating the passerby. The imagined foreign appeal was a farce. It was nowhere like my home, which I now fearfully clung to in my thoughts. On a nearby window ledge I sat down. Leaning back against the spotty glass, I extended one leg to the floor while my hand cupped the other knee. Lips pressed together tightly in a frown-like scowl, for anyone that came within my range, it spelled trouble. Real trouble. Eventually, the disapproving glares became comfortable after a while.
This had to be her. Carrying a dozen or so flowers, she had tanned skin and a round but vogue face, a scattering of freckles on the nose. She wore a maternity style black-knit sweater over tight jeans. When she neared, the smile she gave dazzled: a white ribbon of notably perfect teeth. If only by accident, my hand brushed up against her leg as she jockeyed for position among the small crowd of people. I could smell the lavender, with its calming effect, jumping off her skin.
It surprised me, though, now considering it, that I had never seen many pictures of her. After a friend’s wedding week in Florida, on a morning of photo books and coffee with the old host family, she hadn’t come up in conversation. I wondered why. We’d been together a year. Why all I got was, “My sister got the good genes,” I didn’t know. Then again, I never bothered to ask.
The young lady and man by the window were gone now. I’d left to read a magazine standing, lost track of time. But the other girl was still there, holding the bouquet of flowers. She was buried in the small crowd of people waiting to greet their friends or loved ones. A skinny hipster wearing a black hoodie and a sensible pair of European sneakers stood behind her. His hand caressed the back of her neck. He checked, periodically, a sleek, smart mobile phone. The girl could manage nothing less than a cheerful demeanor, her attention directed at the door to the arrival gate, which was closed. A fair enough distance away, I watched their faces as the door to the gate eventually opened, one or two and a few solemn passengers at a time coming through. Kathleen hadn’t arrived yet. The wait had been so long that even a vestige of what was to come would be as foreign as the airport I inhabited.
I started at the freckles on the girl’s face.
“Honey!” said a voice growing louder as it neared. “What a terrible delay. And the flight was really bad.”
I was clutching my carry-on. “Honey? What are you doing? My sister says they wait outside for us.”
As I momentarily fished through my carry-on, crumbling up a receipt, sighing over the abundance of loose American coins, I had no real sense of myself anymore. It was the beginning of a new life. On her terms. In her country.
Mumbling this and that, I wondered where she was. In America, questions were pummeled with logical, righteous answers. I’d even been nicknamed “the problem solver” at the family-owned company where I had worked, but now, things were going to be different. There were the unknowns of new territory to contend with—I’d have to accept the tacit uncertainty. It was crazy, but so what?
Through the airport window I watched the foreign taxis make their entrance and exit. On top of my bag my Motorola phone did a balancing act. I checked it. Still nothing. With a careful eye on my luggage, I shuffled through a nearby set of electronic doors and, once outside, took in the deep air that had looked so uniquely appealing from the airport window. In the chill for no more than a few seconds and, again, I began to think about her.
When she wore that green sweater, especially, not a fancy Cardigan, but that comfortable-looking, nifty sweater, I knew there was something about her. On the sidewalk near Hunter College, and then after on the six train downtown, I had realized the discovery: that clever combination of brown hair, fair skin, and emerald. The inside mattered first, though: deference to my amusing anecdotes and words that made me think. It’s what kept me coming back for more—date nights, dinner with friends, the MET, Central Park walks, riding across the Brooklyn Bridge on rented blue city bikes, pizza and bagels and what we found in New York that we loved more than in any other city in the world. If fate hadn’t showed up at Jaralyn’s party, who knows whose arms either of us would’ve wound up in? That we were still grateful in spite of an unfortunate departure back home to Europe for her finance career was a testament to our lasting commitment.
LUFTHANSA FLIGHT 450. I peered incessantly at the arrival gate door. Thoughts of our happy life surfaced. Time passed. The lethargy was beginning to wear me down to a fraction of myself. If I had my druthers, I’d have collapsed right there on the floor; things could be extreme like that. “I need a drink,” I said aloud, as if she were right there next me. What do you want, honey? Nearly twenty-four hours ago, we were sitting together at the breakfast bar: I drank coffee while she ate cherry tomatoes with Brie on dark bread. Separate flights, she had rationalized, would add mystery. Not to mention hers was being paid for by her employer. Is this what forever felt like?
“Want a gum?” … “I’m feeling squeezy.” Tightening my baseball cap, I let out a warm chuckle. Often, I would make the correction, but when the innocent look and the slight accent I downright adored distracted in such a pleasant manner, it just wasn’t worth it, despite her being adamant about wanting to speak English flawlessly.
Three hours later. The grayness of the season fashioned heavy faces upon worn-out passengers. I went over to Kaiser’s. Saying nothing, I purchased a bottle of water. It produced no relief for my slim, thirty-year-old body. Still, I had rapture and tales from a year of romantic interludes. But this seemed only to fuel the anticipation.
While fiddling with the zipper on my jacket, I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, a complacent-looking, petite brunette. She had an angled bob haircut and an upper body swimming in fabric. Beside her sat a young man, leaning up against the large airport window. I glanced over at the two of them. Setting her in a fixed gaze, I perceived the act as neither an infatuation nor a lustful gesture but rather an innocuous show of interest in an ordinary woman, someone modest even, in her mannerisms. That’s the best I could tell.
“Was läuft morgen Abend im Kino?” she said.
“Das weiß ich nicht,” the young man replied.
The subtle movements, the soft tone—could she be Kathleen’s sister? While he I had never ventured out of my comfort zone before, I wondered, anyway, about life beyond one`s home base and the confines of my small existence. This could be my brave new world.… With the accidental drop of a purse, I took odd delight in monitoring their activities. I even turned to look away at one point, almost as a form of punishment. The noise over the loud speaker, the vapid travelers filing in and out, began to irk me.
I walked the floor near my arrival gate, evaluating the passerby. The imagined foreign appeal was a farce. It was nowhere like my home, which I now fearfully clung to in my thoughts. On a nearby window ledge I sat down. Leaning back against the spotty glass, I extended one leg to the floor while my hand cupped the other knee. Lips pressed together tightly in a frown-like scowl, for anyone that came within my range, it spelled trouble. Real trouble. Eventually, the disapproving glares became comfortable after a while.
This had to be her. Carrying a dozen or so flowers, she had tanned skin and a round but vogue face, a scattering of freckles on the nose. She wore a maternity style black-knit sweater over tight jeans. When she neared, the smile she gave dazzled: a white ribbon of notably perfect teeth. If only by accident, my hand brushed up against her leg as she jockeyed for position among the small crowd of people. I could smell the lavender, with its calming effect, jumping off her skin.
It surprised me, though, now considering it, that I had never seen many pictures of her. After a friend’s wedding week in Florida, on a morning of photo books and coffee with the old host family, she hadn’t come up in conversation. I wondered why. We’d been together a year. Why all I got was, “My sister got the good genes,” I didn’t know. Then again, I never bothered to ask.
The young lady and man by the window were gone now. I’d left to read a magazine standing, lost track of time. But the other girl was still there, holding the bouquet of flowers. She was buried in the small crowd of people waiting to greet their friends or loved ones. A skinny hipster wearing a black hoodie and a sensible pair of European sneakers stood behind her. His hand caressed the back of her neck. He checked, periodically, a sleek, smart mobile phone. The girl could manage nothing less than a cheerful demeanor, her attention directed at the door to the arrival gate, which was closed. A fair enough distance away, I watched their faces as the door to the gate eventually opened, one or two and a few solemn passengers at a time coming through. Kathleen hadn’t arrived yet. The wait had been so long that even a vestige of what was to come would be as foreign as the airport I inhabited.
I started at the freckles on the girl’s face.
“Honey!” said a voice growing louder as it neared. “What a terrible delay. And the flight was really bad.”
I was clutching my carry-on. “Honey? What are you doing? My sister says they wait outside for us.”
As I momentarily fished through my carry-on, crumbling up a receipt, sighing over the abundance of loose American coins, I had no real sense of myself anymore. It was the beginning of a new life. On her terms. In her country.
