Tag Archives: travel

The Airport

I’m fifteen minutes early and I’m nervous. I don’t know why-I have no reason to be. You’re my dad. I’m half you. We look alike. When I’m really drunk or really angry, I have the same Long Island accent as you (the one I took four years of phonetics classes to get rid of). But we’re very different people, and for many years we’ve been strangers. I’ve been nervous all day about your visit. Are you going to like my apartment? Will we have anything to talk about? Will you criticize my driving? Have I lost or gained weight since we last saw each other in July? Have you? Are you aging? I know you’re aging. How is your hip? I know it’s bad-you’ve been talking about having to have the first side done again. Are you jet lagged (yes, it’s 8:30pm as I start to write this and you’re already asleep). I’m standing in a crowd of strangers feeling completely out of place, like I don’t belong. Like everyone knows that this is my first time doing this. Am I doing it right? It’s an open-ended question with so many possibilities.

I’m keeping my sunglasses on, because I feel like I might cry. I’m not sure why, but the airport is always a place of mixed emotion for me. I’ve learned to numb my feelings about it over the years, but the airport is a place where you find out if you’re loved. I travel so much for work and I am so used to arriving at a destination without having anyone care about me enough to come pick me up that I just choose not to feel. I see people around me. They feel things. They see their loved one and race down the escalator to embrace. They kiss. They have someone help them with their bag. They’re squealing with joy. And me. I’m just there with my roller bag, looking for the nearest exit, hoping that no one will notice me. No one does. It’s a blessing and a curse.

I’m thinking of the time I flew home for Christmas a couple of years ago. I came home after an afternoon of drinking with my coworkers. It was heavy drinking and I was almost too drunk to get on the plane. But I made it and I got off the plane fully sober and as I wheeled my bag down the hallway, I didn’t expect to see anyone- we never talked about you picking me up from the airport or maybe we did and I forgot, but there He was, wearing his typical Dad outfit-generic white running sneakers, dad jeans and a sweatshirt. I could spot him from a mile away. He was smiling so big, his face lit up, his sharp, pointy fang incisors there in their glory. It was unmistakeably him. He looked so happy. So innocent, like it was pure joy that drove the car. It was so comforting. I was so glad I sobered up on the plane ride over so I’d remember that moment forever. For once I had someone there for me when they didn’t have to be. That’s the Darwinism of the airport-nobody has to pick you up. There are cabs and vans and trams and drivers. Someone chooses to pick you up from the airport. They choose you. I was one of those people who is loved enough to have someone waiting for them when they arrive.

I’m feeling very grown-up at the moment, like knowing that picking you up from the airport is the right thing to do. I feel older. Or maybe it’s that I’ve waited a long time for someone to make the effort to come to me-in so many relationships, I do most of the work. I guess part of me expected to move to LA and be alone for a long time-who would fly 3,000 miles to see me? You did. You put in the effort-you got on a plane and you made it happen, and for this I am so grateful. I’m standing in a group of people but totally alone as we wait for Our Person to arrive. A plane must have just landed-there are so many people coming down the escalator. Couples meet, family members hug, and I’m waiting for you. I know you’re in a place you’ve never been and for a moment I begin to panic-did I have the wrong time? Did I have the wrong time zone? Am I at the right gate? Did you miss your flight? Did I miss a call? Did I leave my cell phone in the car? My mind is racing and I’m nervous. The waiting, the wondering, the worrying. It’s changed me and I am reminded that this is part of love. This weird, neurotic state is part of love because you’re concerned about the other person’s well-being and for a moment I think This is what it must be like to be a parent, except you do it all the time. It’s been so long since I’ve had to think about someone else that I’ve almost forgotten how to, and this reminds me that I want someone to love, someone to worry about, someone to keep safe.

Just as I’m about to start digging through my purse to find my phone, I see them. They’re in the distance, but they’re unmistakable. Your generic white running shoes begin to descend on the escalator and before I see the rest of you, I know you’re here and I feel a huge sense of relief. You made it. You’re safe. You’re here! You materialize and you’re looking around for Your Person- me. You’re looking left, right, around, everywhere but where I am, and I begin to wave, hoping you’ll see me and when you do, you look relieved, drop your bag, limp a few steps and put your arms out for a big hug.

Hi, Daddy. I’m so happy to see you.

Life on the Road

Life on the road is not the five star hotel and fancy dinner affair people who have never traveled for work think it is. It’s three cities in a week, six different beds to sleep in alone. It’s missing the friends you haven’t made yet and a place where your mail goes that is supposed to be “home”. It’s trying to have a life and chase a dream across state lines, TSA checkpoints, and time zones. It’s the strangers you share a meal with and never see again. It’s the voice in your head asking if it’s worth it-the missed birthdays, canceled dates, the five pounds you just can’t seem to lose, the restless sleep in unfamiliar beds. It’s the lack of understanding from your friends, family, boyfriend or girlfriend who don’t know what it’s like to occupy two mental spaces at a time- home and the other place. But if you believe in the fight you’re fighting, grab the hand of the person beside you fighting, too, and know you’re not alone. And every one-way ticket has the ability to be a round-trip.

California: Thank You and See You Soon

Karen Nicole Costa

Happiness is being on a beach with the sun on your shoulders and the breeze in your hair


California, how do I begin to thank you? I needed to escape Boston in a desperate kind of way-the grey, rain, and cold was too much for me. I needed vitamin D, the breeze in my hair, and a change of scenery. The best part of traveling is that you can be whoever you want, because nobody knows who you really are. It’s a chance to start over, even if only for a short while, so I pretended to be a happy girl from Boston scouting out neighborhoods to move to when the time is right. I fit right in to Santa Monica-the vibe and the people were my speed and I apparently look like a local; tourists asked me for directions. Little did they know that I was a tourist, too. “You look like you’re from here,” an older woman said. I dog-eared the compliment.

Being out here was not only an escape, but a great way to get over B. While the relationship had been over long before it ended, I’d been performing CPR on it for months, hoping with every chest compression that I could bring it back to life. Every breath I forced into its chest was air I was losing. I was finally able to catch my breath in California. In a strange way, I guess I could thank him for doing what he did; I was ready to move to New Jersey to be with him and now I can leave-no more feeling torn between two dreams-being with someone I love and being somewhere I love. Thanks. Not for breaking my heart, but for setting me free.

People talk to each other here and make eye contact. I felt rude walking around with headphones on, so I didn’t. I felt safe here. Knowing that a place like this exists gives me hope, a feeling so foreign to me that I want to both hold it as close to my heart as possible and treat it like I’m nervously taking a piping hot lasagna with cheese and sauce bubbling over the sides out of the oven with dollar store pot holders. I’ve never had so many strangers chat me up before.

“I love your shoes”
“I love your tattoos”
“I love that book you’re reading”
“You look so cute in your sunglasses”
“You look really pretty today”

A place like this exists?

My experience with the men (though brief and not at all involved) in California was great-they were polite, chivalrous, and direct. If they think you’re cute, they’re going to ask for your number and ask you out to dinner. This is not the Missed Connections crowd. I don’t know if it’s because LA is such a competitive culture or if that’s just the way it is in California, but I’ll take it.

I made some great contacts here and found places that feel like home to me, which is rare. I don’t attach myself to people, places, or things. I’m noun-aphobic, if you will, but no matter how hard I try, I’m going to miss California. When I dropped off my rental car, I took one last stroll down Abbot Kinney, passed through the beach, and onto Main Street in Santa Monica with a heaviness in my heart the whole time. Even now, I feel homesick for it, the way I did when I went to sleepaway camp for the first time. I remember the first night vividly. I was in my bed and I cried myself to sleep, longing for the smell of home and my own bed. As an adult, I’ve uprooted and moved enough times to be calloused-places are just places, things are just things. The only thing I ever take with me are friends and memories. I never leave those behind. This time feels different. My suitcase is packed and I’ve checked-in for my flight. In less than 24 hours, I’ll be landing in Boston, leaving behind the only place that’s ever felt like home to my heart.

See you soon.

How a Friend Changed My Life

“You’re going to die alone.” He said it as if it were a fact, the way a weatherman reports that it’s windy outside during a tornado. Like everyone noticed it but me. The obvious meets the oblivious. That’s me. 

It was the Friday before Valentine’s day. I was very single for the first time in a long time, despite feeling alone for my whole life. I’m the girl in a crowded room who dreads pleasantries, so I cling to a close friend until they get caught up in conversation with a very nice stranger while I nurse my drink in silence. I look unfriendly, but I’m not. I’m just tired  of pretending to be like everybody else, because I’m nothing like anybody else except for my cellular structure, and I’ve known this for a long time. So I keep to myself to save you the trouble of talking to me so that you’re not disappointed. Or maybe so I’m not disappointed. I’m not sure which is more true anymore.

I’ve been head focused on my career for a long time. I found something I’m good at, and work is the only thing that’s never rejected me and there’s always more of it, so it will never abandon me. It’s nothing like any human I’ve ever met, and part of me liked it that way.

Past tense. 364 days ago, to be exact.

I was sitting on the runway on a flight coming back from San Diego. I got in around midnight and as I descended the escalator at the American Airlines terminal, I realized that I was coming home to nothing. I had no reason to come home. Home could have been anywhere-Boston, California, Paris, London, The Moon. It didn’t matter, because there was no one to come home to. I’d been traveling extensively for work. So much travel that one morning, I woke up in my bed in my apartment and I tried to order room service from my blackberry and I was confused as to which button to hit on the key pad to reach the front desk. I had no idea I was home, a place that doesn’t really exist to me; I have the ability to feel at home everywhere and nowhere. I am like a chameleon. No matter where I go, I look like I fit. People ask me for directions and chat me up because I don’t look out of place. But I am.

I watched loved ones embracing and I tried to shield my eyes, as if witnessing a terrorist attack and headed to the cab stand. It was cold and I missed San Diego. I missed being away. I got into a cab and started to cry. It surprised me and it surprised the cab driver even more.

“You’re too pretty to cry,” the cab driver said with a thick accent. I don’t know what kind of accent it was, and I wouldn’t want to insult the cab driver by guessing. He was a cab driver meant for bigger things; he was listening to NPR on the radio. But at that moment, I felt he was ignorant. My entire life, people have been telling me that I’m too pretty to cry, as if you can be too pretty to be sad or too ugly to be happy.

I gave him my address and opened up Twitter. The internet is a great place. When you’ve made a brand out of being publicly available, you always have friends. I have no idea what I tweeted, but it must have been something sad and pathetic, which happens sometimes. I have never been very good at hiding my emotions, for better or worse. I probably said something to the effect of “alone and sad on valentine’s day weekend.” It was the 140 character equivalent of a Cathy cartoon, minus a few cats and a bathrobe. A few flirtatious male friends reached out saying that they’d be my Valentine, as if Valentine’s day is just a twenty-four hour period that starts at midnight and ends at 11:59pm. In case you’re wondering, it’s not.

My phone vibrated and a direct message (for those of you not on twitter, a ‘DM’ as the kids call it is a private message between you and someone else that nobody else can see) came in from my friend @MatthewKnell who I’ve known for a few years and don’t see or speak to nearly enough, but someone I respect immensely and regard highly. He’s known me since my New York days when I was married and living a relatively “normal” life. And he’s seen me through some not-so-normal times. We got to chatting and instead of assuaging me like everyone else, he was honest with me. And he told me that if I didn’t change what I was doing that I was going to die alone. And he was right. I had made it so impossible for anyone to get close to me that it was more than possible, it was probable.

I was angry at him. He was getting married and I thought he was high and mighty. In reality, my pride was hurt. I don’t like to partake in activities that I’m not good at-I’m a perfectionist. But I am not very good at matters of the heart. I am not very trusting. I confuse sadness for anger, I overreact, I’m inflexible, and I have the ability to turn my emotions on and off as if they were connected to a light switch. And I scare away so easily it’s a wonder I can get out of bed in the morning and face the world. But I do. Because deep down, I want to be loved more than anything. And I have so much love to give someone-I’ve been saving it up my whole life for the right person. I have so much love to give that it’s overwhelming.

I wrote off the comment and deleted the messages, as if I could erase them from my mind the way I could erase them from my phone. But I went home that night and fell asleep in a puddle of my own tears and the next day, I woke up and I grabbed a moleskin and I wrote down all the things I wanted out of life and I realized that everything I wanted would be a lot more fun with somebody else. Sure, it’s physically possible to go to Paris alone, and I will buy a house one day, but wouldn’t it be nice to come home to someone? The answer to all of my questions was ‘yes.’

I never told Matt that I was angry at him. I know he would have taken it well if I confronted him about it, because he’s mild mannered and well-adjusted in ways I will never be. He has a beautiful life, a wife, and a wonderful career and he makes a difference in people’s lives. Especially mind. After the anger dissipated, I began taking care of myself. I did more yoga, spent time with friends, went ice skating, laughed, and made some wonderful friends. I wasn’t focused on dating. I dated, but I wasn’t looking for anything.

It was when I wasn’t looking for anything that I found everything-the courage to put myself out there. The courage to let myself be vulnerable and open to another person.

So thank you for changing my life, changing the lens I look at the world through, and for having the courage to tell me the truth so that I don’t push the world away. Because nobody wants to die alone. Especially me.

[Note: this was probably the hardest post I have ever written. Not because it was stylistically challenging or fancy or even good. How can you ever appropriately thank someone who changed your life? I guess "thank you" is a good enough start.]