The plane landed ahead of schedule. Rare case. I checked my cellphone signal before walking into the concourse where only a few people were waiting. Early arrivers were greeted with flowers, keen hugs and kisses; each careful enough not to spill the coffee in his hand. I took a couple of quick steps to break from those friendly but enquiring stares, soon found myself standing alone at the center of the hall, my thin T-shirt stuck to my back, gushes of chilly air rushing from the door onto my face. I shivered a little.
I suddenly became curious. How did people conduct this ritual in the old days? Plans must have been made several months ahead. Then there was the mailman on horseback traveling thousands of miles for a single piece of message. Huge mission. And then there was the anxiety. Flipping calendars, counting fingers. When would he arrive? Did anything happen on the way? What would be the first thing he said? It must have been a torture, sitting in your room, smoking and sipping beer, looking through the window, watching the sun paced across the sky till you could wait no longer… Then there was this van pulling into the lot, finally, after so many years! You tossed your cigarette butt and jumped to your feet and… Oh wait wait. That seemed to be the movie.
So I picked a corner and seated myself comfortably. The thick turtleneck I wore before boarding was no longer needed. I carefully folded it and placed it on top of my trousers: a dry cleaning was due. The old lady who sat next to me asked if she could borrow my phone to call her son. She forgot that hers didn’t work here and requested me to dial for her, as she couldn’t see very well without glasses. She was on the phone for about 5 minutes, in Spanish, and finished her conversation with a “thank you”. She thanked me after that and told me she was from the Philippines. It was strange that cellphone signals were different in different countries.
A tall, cleanly shaved man walked past me. His left hand was pushing the phone hard against his ear while his right gripped the handle of his luggage. It seemed that he couldn’t hear very well, but at the same time he was talking in a low, almost secretive voice, and was turning his head to look around from time to time. At one point he decided to get a coffee, so he stopped walking, kissed his phone, folded it and put it back to the left front pocket of his jeans. When he was doing that he used both hands, so he let go of his luggage. It almost fell, but he caught it in time. He was a charming figure, at least his outfit said so: a well tailored, light grey flannel sports jacket; a washed black shirt with top two buttons comfortably opened; a pair of slim, dark blue jeans that perfectly covered the back of his heels, right to the ground; and of course a pair of dark, pointy-toed shoes, old, but still somewhat glossy. For an international flight he carried amazingly few belongings: a black suitcase that could hold no more than a dozen shirts, and a black leather messenger bag for laptop. Later when he was standing next to me outside on the curb, I noticed those two pieces were of the same brand. There was a small, silver emblem of some kind in the low right corner, on both the suitcase and the bag. How coordinated.