FLY AWAY HOME . . .

I love airports. I love going to airports to travel, going to airports to drop people off, going to airports to pick people up, and in college, going to airports to study. Rather, to "study." I usually spent the time writing in my journal or people-watching and making up stories about their lives or watching planes land and take-off. It was more calming than yoga.

Despite the mental stigma that my brain now automatically attaches to airports -- planes now being weapons of mass destruction, after all -- I still love the feelings I feel and the thoughts I think in an airport, or wondering about the feelings and thoughts of others. There's a vibe that runs through an airport terminal that is unlike any other. It's just not the same energy as that which exists in a coffeehouse, the trading floor, even a train or bus station. It's more and it's crazier and it's more frenetic and emotional than any other venue. It's the wondering whether the woman focused intently on the CNN Headline News screen is really paying attention or is stressing about the fact that she didn't pack enough changes of underwear. It's the staring at the guy who's staring at a gum stain on the floor and counting how long it takes for him to move. It's the watching those who are waiting and those who are arriving and trying to match up traveler to greeter. It's the perusing the limousine drivers holding welcome signs and wondering "are any of these guys Mafia hitmen under cover, waiting to hit the arriving innocent?" It's the seeing children reunited with parents, grandparents in traditional African dress embracing their young, jeans-clad descendants ... and being ever-so-curious about whether a kissing couple really loves each other, whether the bratty teenager complaining to her dad about her heavy backpack is really such a bitch at home, whether the biracial couple and their adorable mixed-race son have it tough out there in American society.

When I travel, I love traveling alone, knowing that my suitcase is packed just so, regardless of what the security team will do to it, that I have everything I need with me in my carry-on, including lip balm and facial lotion and the makeup that I'll apply right before the plane lands. I do everything everyone tells me to do: I drink a lot of water, I walk around the plane every half hour or so, I eat a light meal before the flight, I moisturize my face and hands. I keep close tabs on my photo ID and my boarding pass, and I always always pay attention to the flight attendants at the start of the flight, even though I've read the emergency card and have already scoped out the best avenues of exit, as well as if there are any elderly or children/babies around me who might need my assistance before I assist myself. I am never so responsible for myself as I am when I travel alone. I never feel more grown-up than when I have to get up early for a flight and sit at the gate with a cup of coffee and Bob, waiting for my row to be called for seating.

I love praying before takeoff and landing, asking God to keep us safe, to guide the hands of the pilots and the directions of the air traffic controllers, and thanking Him for a safe and uneventful flight (after we're pulled up to the gate and the front door has been opened, of course). I love the feeling of overcoming my slight fear of flying each time the plane lifts its wheels off the tarmac, and each time the plane hits the runway with a bump upon landing. I love unclenching my fists from the armrests, opening my eyes and seeing land roll slowly by. I love sitting on the plane, wondering if the circumstances are right for me to swipe the blanket that has kept me only slightly warm during the flight, but would definitely be the perfect covering for me in front of the television at home. And when I'm on JetBlue ... well, I just love everything about JetBlue.

When I assist others traveling, I love being responsible for their cars, their homes, their mail, whatever. I love making little piles on their kitchen tables -- junk mail, catalogs, important mail, packages, newspapers -- so they can easy-sort when they get home. I love helping to unload the car and seeing them off to check-in. I love arriving early to wait to greet them at baggage claim. I love feeling like one of those waiting people I enjoy observing, and wonder who's observing me, what they're thinking about me, what they're assuming about my relationship with those I greet and welcome home.

My deepest desire -- aside from becoming an FBI agent putting pedophiles and Asian gangsters in jail -- is to have someone pay me to sit in airports all day and all night long, writing about what I observe, hear, even smell, making up stories and reuniting loved ones inside my head, resolving dramas and reconciling the lost. Heck, I'd do that for free, I think ...