Dear Digital Diary,
occasionally I write memoir pieces.
Before the Plane Takes Off
Having what feels like a midlife crisis at the age of twenty-one is both enraging and depressing. Half of my friends were married by February of 2024 but I had just started antidepressants and was in a constant state of derealization and nausea. I’d lay on my bed, alone, ruminating about my life decisions, and how different my life would look if I hadn’t chosen this school at this time or chosen to do that thing — all while my childhood friend slept soundly next to her husband.
I felt as though my timeline was off. What I was comparing my timeline to remained a mystery, but what I was doing seemed wrong. Because of that and the lack of control I felt over my own life, I didn’t see any reason not to sign up for an interview to study abroad for a program that had nothing to do with my major. But I was selected.
So at the end of June, between my junior year and senior year of undergrad, I found myself exhausted, slightly hungover, and four days ill with COVID in the TSA line of the FCO airport in Rome. I was pursuing a writing degree, but I’d just finished two weeks of intensive drawing in three cities in Italy as a part of a study abroad program for Savannah College of Art and Design. I felt as though this was obvious as the Italian in the black gloves and angry expressions unzipped my carry-on to find two fat sketchbooks, watercolors, graphite, pencil sharpeners, and a half-filled water bottle I’d forgotten to dump. He looked at me with a raised eyebrow and I was too tired to do anything other than shrug. My suitcase looked like the product of an art store raid and couldn’t have been the strangest thing they’d seen.
When he finally let me go, I rolled my bag toward my gate and shuffled my shoes across the linoleum. The illustration majors that I’d made friends with over the two weeks had already made it to their gates and I wondered when I’d see them again, or a matter of if. We were different people who all happened to be in the same place, bound by a level of trauma bonding. But I refused to ruminate on that for long — I needed coffee. If there was one thing I’d learned in Europe, it’s that the coffee was strong and in the short time I’d been abroad, I’d become an addict.
I didn’t care much for airport food, feeling malaise and all, but ordered a cappuccino in broken Italian and asked for it in a takeaway cup since it was one of those restaurant settings but I had less than a quarter of an hour before I was set to board. It was made in seven minutes — Italians weren’t those who cared much for the adrenaline rush and seemed not to mind taking their sweet time. I didn’t mind it until I had a schedule, like an 8 pm class or in this case, a flight to catch.
Luckily the gate was only a few yards away, so I dragged myself, my bags, and my paper-covered coffee over to a seat. While I’d usually pick a seat in an area that was unoccupied on either side of myself, many of the seats were already full. Reluctantly, I sat next to an older woman, who watched me while I balanced my coffee on top of my suitcase. At first, I thought it was because I was wearing a mask. It was to wear a mask four years post-COVID, although it’s good I did because I tested positive once I landed back in New England. But instead, she pointed at my suitcase.
“Do you travel a lot?” she asked.
I looked at where she was pointing. My hardtop suitcase, which was my high school graduation gift, was covered in vinyl stickers from most airports I’d stopped at since I’d gotten it: places like Philadelphia (for a Taylor Swift concert), Dallas (wedding), Savannah (school), NYC (Broadway show), and a few more. I couldn’t find a Rome sticker, but then again, the trip wasn’t yet over.
I nodded and told her I had, although this was my first trip abroad, and that it was for school. And when she asked which school, I told her.
“I’m studying writing there, but I wanted a chance to draw in a foreign country,” I said and pulled my mask down to sip my coffee. Usually, I’d stop talking, but I felt compelled to continue. “My parents are both artists, but they don’t really draw anymore. I wanted to make sure I didn’t do that.”
“And you haven’t so far,” the woman said.
“I guess not.”
I took another sip of coffee and studied the woman as she looked down at her phone. She had long, gray hair that hung in waves over her shoulders, and skin that wasn’t pale and wrinkled like most old women, but had the skin tone and creases of someone who’d smiled most of the day and laid in the sun. She wore a muted purple top and a wedding ring on her left hand.
“Why were you in Rome?” I asked. There were only ten minutes until boarding anyway. For someone who never chose to socialize, I figured it didn’t hurt on occasion.
She smiled. “I was visiting my son. He lives with his wife here.”
She went on to tell me she has two more sons, both of which live out of the USA, but none of them have children just yet.
“I love children,” she said, “but it was my job for many years to teach them, so I’m alright with just hanging around my adult children for a little while longer.”
I blinked at her. “Were you a teacher?”
She shook her head. “I was a school therapist. I guess they’re called counselors now, but that’s what I did in Alaska for a while. I was the therapist for students. And I loved it.”
“I wanted to be a teacher,” I told her. “Then I went to art school instead. Sometimes I’m not sure why I did it.”
When she smiled at me, her eyes crinkled like she’d done it a thousand times before, almost like how my eyes were starting to form the beginning lines of crow’s feet. “But you’re so young! You’ve got time.”
“I wonder if I don’t sometimes.”
She laughed. “Believe me, you’ve got time. I’ve lived longer than you and I still have time, too.”
We fell quiet then, and I sipped more of my coffee. It occurred to me then that it wasn’t that I hated small talk — I only hated it when it was superficial. Superficial or surface level. I could tell that that woman was neither of those things.
“Do you travel a lot?” I asked.
She nodded. “I travel to see my kids a few times a year. But when I’m not traveling to them, my husband and I like to visit new countries.”
“And which is your favorite country you’ve ever visited?” I took out my phone then as if ready to start typing. “For my next trip.”
The woman thought for a moment. Then she said, “Tonga. I really loved Tonga.”
I blinked at her. “Tonga?”
“Tonga.”
I stared at her in disbelief. “My mother has always wanted to go there. She’s said she wants to go and make tapa cloth.”
I didn’t know anyone knew about Tonga. Of course, people knew about it, but it was a very niche sort of thing that certainly didn’t come up in everyday conversation unless it was from my mother’s mouth.
“Smart woman,” she said. “It was very beautiful and the people were lovely.”
“That’s what I like most about traveling.” I drained the last of my coffee and put the empty cup on the floor. “Learning about people and how they live and think.”
“And that’s why I think you’d make a great teacher. If you ever wanted to of course,” she added. “You have a nurturing spirit.”
It was then that the intercom turned on to announce the first class of boarding. I began to gather my things, slinging my backpack over my tired, aching body.
“I think you’ll be just fine doing whatever you want to do,” she said, picking up her bag from the floor. Her silver bangles jangled around her wrist as she did so and she stood.
I pulled up my mask over my nose and grabbed the handle of my suitcase, standing. I wasn’t much taller than her. “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll see you in Boston.”
I didn’t see her in Boston, nor did I see her on the flight due to the capacity of an international airplane. But I thought about her on the eight-hour flight back home, and then after. Part of me wonders if I’ll one day wake up, look in the mirror, see myself mature and wrinkled, and notice an inkling of her in me. If I do, I feel as though that’ll mean I turned out quite alright.
End.
Dear Digital Diary 