At long last, we are on our way. We’re through check-in and are at the gate. People- watching is always fun, but more so at the international gates. We’re surrounded by a cacophony of languages, French, German, and a couple I couldn’t guess.
A mother in a headscarf and a long brown dress sits with a couple little boys. One is draped on her knee, napping, and the other one is chattering nonstop. She’s on the phone, speaking French.
A bunch of young men are dragging scuffed-up backpacks, one with a soccer ball secured in a net. I stood behind one of these guys in the TSA line, and my nose told me that he may have come straight from a steamy hot soccer game to catch his flight.
A young woman in a full-length laveder dress and hooded cape stands in a line next to a girl in denim cut-offs. Dress for travel takes many forms, and I can’t help but recall my first flight, when my Uncle Al put me on a plane– actually getting on board with me to be sure I found my seat. I was wearing a suit, dress shoes, and nylons for my trip from Boston to Chicago, when I was fourteen.
Just about everyone is drawn in to some electronic device, but Mike is reading a real magazine. Another guy has a Grisham paperback. A real book almost seems quaint, but the advantage is that we snoopers can see what other travelers are reading.
Getting on board soon. Au revoir, mes amis!