People are rushing past me, fast and determined to find their gate. They don't want to miss their flights. They want to get in line quickly to secure a space in the overhead compartment. They carry pieces of their lives with them, usually in their carry-ons. It's uncommon to send such personal items to the baggage compartment. Sure, clothes that make people look like themselves can be sent down. Food—a common item for both immigrants and tourists alike, though immigrants often bring food that reminds them of their grandmother - can't be brought in a carry on. Gifts for loved ones. All of those are in the baggage compartment, cold and alone. But it's ok. They're superfluous, they're new, they're not people's lives.
In the overhead compartment, though, it's a mix of trinkets and memories. People's wallets with photos of their children, spouses, and dogs. Travelers' medications, because those who need them know to never leave them far away. Maybe a quick change of clothes in case something goes wrong. People's worries. The most precious gifts, those that break, usually for the most solid of all loves. Their laptops and phones, which nowadays serve as photo albums, entire libraries and discographies. People's memories can now be carried everywhere. No wonder we feel so much more than our elders did. And, always, carefully wrapped on a duty-free bag, you can find that bottle of booze someone bought to celebrate their arrival home. Or to cry over their lost ones. These are memories, worries, gestures of love, care, and health. Of course they would be overhead. Over all of our heads, as if we all shared an intimate secret for a couple of hours. As if we held each other's lives above ourselves.
When I see those videos of bizarre turbulence, I always focus on the things getting scattered, thrown into the air. Suddenly everyone is exposed. Not only their hearts revealed through their carry-ons but also through fear. That crazy, odd, gut-wrenching fear when a plane loses altitude or goes through different pressure systems. Planes are so much like people—they just fall a bit when the pressure changes, and then casually get back on track as if nothing had happened.
I've been there multiple times. Once, my father continued to tightly hold and read his book while my mother held on to our dear lives, in utter shock and panic. I laughed. Nothing could be a better representation of those two than their reactions. It's not that my dad didn't feel the fear, he simply chose to ignore it. It's not that my mom thought we would really die, she just panicked because it's what she does. And me and my laughter? Oh, I felt the fear too. But I also felt life. I also felt my dad's attempt to calm us by pretending everything was just fine. I felt my mom's attempt to show how much she loved us by almost breaking the bones in our hands. I was just taking it all in, absorbing the world as I usually do.
The man in seat 5A was saying how he lost his second wife. It's been a while, and he's coming out of mourning. I felt it, and my eyes teared up. Not that I don't have my own reasons to cry—I do. I know loss, but not that type of loss. My carry-on has a multiplicity of things, but I'm alone now. I only care about my medication and my sleep aids. My laptop and phone have to be closer than overhead; it's all I have now, memories and a project. As Gilberto Velho says, through a mix of memory and project, past and future, I have an identity.
As we cross the American continent all the way from Toronto to Rio, my wish is to travel more, to get out there and continue to experience the new. I've found my way to living just with a carry-on. I've found my way to carry all that matters most on my phone. I've found my way.
I'm free, and I'm in no rush. I thought I regretted missing my last flight, but I don't. If I had caught that flight, I wouldn't be who I need to be now. And so I walk slowly through the terminal with my carry-on, waiting for my next flight to be announced. I walk and think about all of the stories passing me by. I see a couple crying, a baby laughing, a grandmother struggling to carry her cane and luggage. I imagine what their lives are like. Where are they flying to? Who are they flying towards? Maybe, who are they flying away from?
Me, I'm just flying for the sake of flying. Towards, away, with. No rush, no gate, no time.
