Seeing and Being Seen in a Customs Line

“‘Don’t you find it odd,’ she continued, ‘that when you’re a kid, everyone, all the world, encourages you to follow your dreams. But when you’re older, somehow they act offended if you even try.'”

— Ethan Hawke, The Hottest State

I’ve landed in the future, discombobulated after a night of half-sleep, half-waging war on finite space with my traveling companions on the plane. Luckily, we didn’t exchange looks when we landed and I escaped the plane unscathed, only slightly guilty from robbing her of some of her shut-eye.

It is 9am when we land and my next flight boards at 10:30, in another terminal. I try not to panic, knowing full well how long customs can take, and that I am donning a carry-on that pushes the upper limits of what is allowed on Jetstar. I hurriedly get off the plane and lope through the airport in my most-efficient, but-still-cool-calm-collected strides. We get to the ePassport scan booths, which are cool in essence, but for some reason do not accurately scan my nearly-expired passport.

I hop in the long cue of other domestic travelers and try my best not to reveal how sweaty I have become from carrying 30lbs of luggage around. I wish I had an invisibility cloak for people watching in cues. I have lately realized that I write an equal number of stories about the other people and how I think they see me. ‘Young solo traveler. Travels light. Hip curdoroy hat. I wonder if that is her style or just a phase. I wonder if her bag is heavy. She looks okay… oh she just set it down and that thing THUDS. It’s heavy. She must be strong. She must be a swimmer.  I wonder where she is going…’ etc. etc. It was only recently that I realized how loud the mental chatter is, though.

The world moves through me in a vast, oscillating sponge of all my lived experience directly projecting onto the people around me. It’s something that has been afforded only by countless hours spent alone, wondering and wandering and witnessing the world without a confirmation bias to prove me right or wrong. In my solitude, I’ve grown accustomed to the dance of finding connections. I take delight when my assumptions are correct, as much as I do when I’m kindly proven wrong.

In front of me is a family with two teenage daughters. One of the girls is wearing a lavender track suit with a lavender Rollie bag. Her parents are in oversized jeans and sweatshirts. It appears she is trying to put distance between them, to disassociate from them. I want to tell her to be grateful, and realize I am talking to that younger version of me who was desperate to carve her own identity. The man in front of her is about 6’4” and a solid 3’ wide. He has broad shoulders, with pecs rippling through a gray shirt. Another man talks to him in a language I don’t know, and he says something ‘Oh I come in peace, and grips his chest, and smiles. I am overcome with an incredible softness for this giant man and want to hug him. I smirk at the human laws that prevent us from doing such things.

Half an hour later I am through customs, then declarations, then on the transfer bus. It is 10:08 and I don’t have time for a coffee. Luckily I checked in early, so I sail through TSA and look for my gate. Naturally it’s 59, all the way at the end. I hoof it to the gate, making it with just enough time to enjoy a quick flat white before hopping on the plane. Next stop, Hobart! I wiggle past boarding agents with my two bags, settle into my seat, and immediately clonk out for take off. I awake to the stewardesses wandering he isle with airline fare, I pass, and fall back asleep. When I wake up we are descending into the rugged bush of a place I once called home.

I have many more things to say about how much like home the air feels when I take my first gulp, but I must sort out a SIM card so I can catch an uber to my accom. The logistics of being human…