Arrivals & Departures March 20, 2007

There are a lot of things dysfunctional about my family (hello, none of us will drink water in anything other than bottled form), but airports is not one of them.
 
Whenever one of us is leaving – whether to Greece for the summer or a quick jaunt on the shuttle to DC for a business trip – it quickly becomes a family affair. So much so that there are usually five people in the car, leaving not so much room for the luggage. The non-travelers park the car, wait for the traveler to check in and then everyone hems and haws about what to eat (because, you know, the options are just that tempting – Super Wok? Or Chili’s Express?), before eventually deciding on McDonald’s. When it is time for the traveler to head to the gate, everyone walks him or her there and doesn’t leave until the traveler has turned around to wave four or five times and is generally concluded to be completely, one hundred percent out of sight.
 
Arrivals are a bit more tame, if you consider a sign bearing your name and a bouquet of flowers (“guys, I was just in Boston for a long weekend”) tame.
 
In sum, my family forms a mini-entourage at airports. We all pull together, because what says family more than “You get in at 1am? And want Mexican food ready and waiting in the car? And you need me to drive you all the way into the city? On a Tuesday night? I’ll be there.”
 
My boyfriend has had the exact opposite experience in his life. When he’d arrive home from college, from a vacation or for a visit, he’d be alone. No one to greet him, muss his hair and tell him how great he looked. He and his luggage would have to ride mass transit alone, both to and from the airport. From the station, he’d have to take a taxi to his parents’ home.
 
I don’t mean to be critical of his parents. They’ve done a wonderful job raising the man I plan to marry. It’s just that seeing someone off or greeting them at arrivals just isn’t something that has ever been a tradition in their family. It’s something that has always bothered M. He sees it as his parents being selfish.
 
I’m quickly becoming his family now, and I want my family’s tradition of being there to welcome a loved one back to endure. Which is why I told M that I won’t be able to make it to the airport to pick him up at 10pm on Wednesday night. “I’ll be working late, baby. I’m so sorry. Meet you at your place?”
 
Except, of course I’ll be there. Maybe even with a sign. I want him to know what it’s like to have someone waiting, to be able to get into a car and not a cab, to have someone to muss his hair and tell him he looks great, even though he’s a bastard for getting so tan and therefore making me look so pale.
 
The only obstacle between me and the airport is digging out his car, which has been parked in front of my building since before the ice storm. Tomorrow after work, I will be armed with a shovel and a pout, hoping that some sturdy passerby (or my doorman) takes pity on the girl barely making a dent in the ice/snow and offers to lend her a hand.
 
But even if I have to do it myself, it’ll be worth it because clearly he’s worth it.