Beyond My Destination

Placed conveniently on the slowly rotating conveyor is an elaborate array of patterned paraphernalia. Each bag rotates deliberately, as if in careful anticipation for the clutch of warm skin against the contrastingly bland and nondescript textile of its handle. A woman chases her daughter around the luggage claim, pausing only briefly to catch hold of her Samsonite suitcase as it appears amidst the mounds of unidentifiable luggage. Across the way, a businessman taps his leather loafer against the synthetic plastic flooring, impatiently awaiting the arrival of his briefcase. Like the wheel of fortune, each turn of the conveyor a new fate is revealed and a new passenger is sent on their way.

Throughout the terminal, everything is conscious, focused, prepared. To the city, it is early; for the airport, timing is nothing. Life in the terminal is continuous, similar to the evening news: it never pauses, nor waits for its audience to tune in; instead, it is in constant movement—ready for anything, expecting nothing.

Tall, isolated doorways stand steadfastly in the center of the airport, marking the entryway to the vast expanse of terminals. Pairs of shoes gradually make their way through the x-ray machine. The textured fabrics placed atop worn rubber soles disappear one by one as if each shoe is marching irresolutely towards an unknown battle.

The guards scan the never-ending line of passengers, directing them uniformly through the doorway and towards the promise of a new start. An image of black and white flashes on the small screen of the box-like security display, creating a silhouette of the bag and its contents. With each image, there is an officer to scrutinize the contents—eyes aching with the promise of a coming break. Each bag holds vastly different possessions, requiring attentive focus and acting as yet another meek reminder of our humanistic diversity.

In line, a family eagerly plans their daily Caribbean excursions as they wait. Behind them, a couple dressed in matching jumpsuits stretch together as if preparing for a race. Off to the side, a preteen boy stands alone, unsurely biting his nails as he allows a middle-aged flight attendant to lead him through the airport security. The line inches forward sluggishly, and with it, the bags pursue the shoes, gravitating slowly through the machine and towards the unknown.

At the end of security, the walls widen to a broad expanse of carpeted floor, an arena developed primarily for the purpose of functionality. The bland walls and spacious picture windows act as a minute reminder of the airports industrialist purpose. The appearance is worn, but the tasks are performed. An Asian male converses joyfully with his friend in Japanese while two Muslim women dressed in silk headdresses giggle over the cheesy souvenir shops along the perimeter of the terminal. The diversity is apparent; it is obvious in the physical appearance of the populous, but also the ambitions and discussions of the strangers.

A man dressed in a coarse gray suit is perched on one of the many uniformly placed terminal chairs. The worn springs lying beneath the rough fabric squeak under the strain of their newest passenger. Hoards of people dart by, rushing to arrive at their individual gates before the unforgiving passageways come to a close; the man in the suit continues to sit, rooted to his seat like a heavy rock to a steep mountainside. The man rests on the polyester cushion, his aging face displaying a placid yet thoughtful contemplation. A jet engine echoes in the background and the man raises his eyes to turn away from his newspaper; his face of serenity is quickly eliminated and immediately replaced by the generic look of exhausted impatience which is present on the faces of so many passengers: furrowing his brows beneath his round spectacles; slumping his shoulders in defeat; hands quivering with the unsteadiness of his most recent caffeine high. Like so much of the airports population, he is focused; he is lively; he is impatient.

As with all journeys to the airport, comes a departure soon after. From above me, I hear the voice of a flight attendant prevailing over the loud distractions of the airports’ environment. The voice characteristically announces the first boarding call for flight 187 to Portland, Oregon. I, along with the aging businessman in the gray suit, stand up slowly with relief. Walking through the door into the cooler climate of the connecting hallway, I feel a sense of revival. With my departure from the surprisingly diverse environment of my own San Francisco airport, I am entering a new niche, transporting myself to a fresh arena of discovery and an increasingly vast unknown: my final destination.

-Shawna