NOTE: For readers that don't know already, the Husband and I maintain separate homes, one in Austria, one in Seattle. This means a lot of flying. Mostly, we seem to like it that way, though sometimes, we don't.
For what seems like the 100th time, I took the husband to the airport. We made the drive to SeaTac in relative silence. We were in full agreement about how much his departure sucks, so there really wasn't much to talk about. The finish work on the new bathroom is done, the computer is reformatted, and there were no loose ends. What could we talk about besides how much his departure sucks for both of us?
The airport experience has really changed since "the events of last September." I used to drop the Husband at the curb and then go park the car. I'd join him in the check in line, which often wound down through the maze of ropes, across the walkway and in to another roped off auxiliary line. It could take half an hour, 45 minutes, to get to the front desk. We'd be surrounded by German vacationers, Dutch businessmen, Indian families...When I walked in to the terminal Julius was standing under the departures screen waiting for me. Check in had taken him less time that it had taken me to park the car. We were a little early, but there are just not as many passengers as there used to be.
We wandered up and down the main terminal and inspected the remodeling work that's going on. There are a few new businesses and lots of new seating areas. The main change, however, is that the central terminal is as far as you can go. Without the appropriate paperwork, you can't get past the guards, so now you have to say your tearful goodbyes earlier than you want to. You head home in your car while your loved one sits out at the international terminal, waiting another hour to go through yet another check point before finally boarding the plane. I was drinking coffee at a friend's house in White Center while the husband was sitting in a row of plastic and faux leather airport seats watching CNN and eating take out from the Burger King.
I hate going to the airport, of course, and I hate saying goodbye. You'd think I'd be happy about the depersonalization of the new departure set up. I'm not. He's my husband and I want to see him off. I want to spend all the time I can with him, up to the last moment that he's called to get on the plane. I don't want to send him down some escalator to wait, unaccompanied, in a holding tank for another hour while I drink French pressed coffee somewhere else. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy for every layer of additional security that is designed to make sure he travels safely, but it just feels wrong.
The first time we said goodbye, I was the one flying. I waited for the last call and then stood behind the glass, watching him walk away and turn back, walk and turn back. There was no extra time, I ran down the gangplank to board the plane and we took off some ten minutes later. I breathed deeply and fell asleep in no time. There's something oddly reassuring about the right kind of goodbye. The sadness isn't too big to swallow and there's a completeness that allows you to breathe. We've had a lot of practice at saying goodbye and over time have developed a way that works for us. I missed watching the Husband board the plane this time and I'm feeling a bit lost because of it.
We're in the midst of a media onslaught about the anniversary of September 11. The impact it's had on our lives is immeasurable. For the Husband and me, it's come down in unexpected ways, like the way we say goodbye and how we feel afterwards. We've moved away from the gate. I guess we'll learn how to part there, from now on. Or perhaps we'll finally learn how not to part at all.
