airport melodies by arezu tavakoli

Airports, in their purest form, represent freedom. They act as a means of escape, a bridge to the other side, and a VIP pass to experience that infamous green grass. For some, they represent a chance to start over, get a clean slate, and rewrite one’s story. For others, they are a source of great stress that call for copious amounts of Tylenol and coffee with notes of vodka. For me, however, airports represent pristine serenity and at one point were a means of escaping the chaos and dysfunction that I called “home.”

Traveling to me is like yoga to upper-middle-class white women: an expensive hobby that forces the brain to produce obscene amounts of endorphins along with a side of internal tranquility. Airports incite extreme calm within me causing me to enter an immediate state of zen upon initial contact with that tingly chaotic atmosphere. The loading zone’s piercing aroma of cigarettes and gasoline paired with sounds of cars honking and people yelling act as the opening verse to my internal lullaby. Suitcase wheels rhythmically clicking on tile grooves playing in tandem with the clacking of brisk flight attendant footsteps makes the pre-chorus. Racing to untie your shoes at TSA only to be startled by the shockingly cold linoleum biting at your feet through thin cotton socks is the climb. Feeling your cheeks flush with the slightest tinge of humiliation as an agent uses latex-coated hands to rummage through your bag is the bridge. The warm rush of victory that shoots through your veins as you collapse into the battered plastic-leather chairs by your gate is the climax. And the synchronized clicks of passengers fastening their seat belts is the satisfying final beat to that internal lullaby, signaling the many good things to come.

This airport lullaby was the staple of my childhood. It was what kept me going and still partially does today. It held immense meaning throughout my life because hearing it meant getting one step closer to hugging my loved ones and one step farther from my childhood city of perpetual grey. Travel was the only way I could see my family which happened as frequently as once every two years and was a massive privilege for a child of immigrant parents. That lullaby sparked a rare feeling of certainty within me because, for once, I knew I was headed to a place where I actually felt welcome and wanted. A place where I could dance from flower to flower on burnt red tile. Or spend hours sitting in window sills made of nothing but exposed concrete. Or tip-toe on white tiles turned blue from the juice of broken berries and inhale as much jasmine laced oxygen as my tiny lungs could possibly muster. These trips guaranteed happiness, a chance to leave any and all problems behind, and a precious sliver of time that wouldn’t be dedicated to worrying about anyone or anything. It was a chance to run away from all the fighting and grey and I made certain to religiously etch these moments into the walls of my mind.

I still use traveling as a means to run away. I don’t mind though because I personally don’t see a problem with occasionally giving in to one’s whims. Besides, I grew up knowing that I was born incapable of staying still; so why try to enforce immobility? Plus, traveling gives me a sense of freedom and direction. I know that even if life feels completely stagnant with grey encroaching from all sides, I can have faith that a ticket will serve as the key to my getaway vehicle. And what if I am not actually running away from anything at all? What if I am running towards something incredible?