My favorite spot in the world is a stretch of tile flooring in an airport in the Caribbean. I’m not sure I know how to explain the why, but I want to try.
It’s November 25th. I’ve already handed over my immigration and customs documents, and have answered the Dominican officer’s one question: “Why so serious, honey?” I think to say, “It’s just my face”, but instead offer a smile and say “I’m fine”, and he hands back my passport. Even with my stuffed-to-the brim suitcase dragging behind me, I pass the ground transportation kiosks quickly and remind myself to avoid eye contact with the salespeople. They might just mistake my glance for their opportunity to pitch an affordable fare or a fantastic daily rate for my time in the city. I won’t waste their winning smiles. I’ve got a ride. And there’s something more important I need to concentrate on up ahead.
The next turn leads to a window-lined hallway, which leads to the sliding doors that open to the airport’s waiting area, the almost regal entryway for all passengers arriving in Santo Domingo’s international airport. As I reach the bend, my heart flutters, like it’s done without fail on holidays for the last 2 years since I’ve been away. My eyes water, and I smile, noticeably. The coming moments are the very best part of coming home.
I purposefully slow my pace, and spotting my reflection in the windows of the offices bordering that hall, pat down my hair, rearrange any misplaced flaps of clothing, and rapidly stroke the skin beneath my eyes hoping it’ll bring some life to my face. After some 6 months of not seeing the people who’ve come to greet me, I want to make a good impression. But the flight tired me and excitement and nervousness have tied knots in my stomach. “Come on. Nice and cheery now,” I think to myself. As I near the doorway, the security officer nods me an “ok to go”. Not far ahead I hear laughter, clapping and boisterous conversation. The doors slide open, and I see the beginnings of the waiting crowd of Dominicans.
The next few yards lead to the airport exit in a straightaway lined by steel barriers. Behind them, bodies, brown, black and mestizo, droop with boredom, while others anxiously thrust their heads high, and sway in search of him or her, or the daughter they’ve never met. I’m not who they’re waiting for, so they shift their attention back to whatever they can see beyond the doors.
I keep looking too, until I spot my father, jumping, skipping, dancing, waving at me, and smiling a smile that doesn’t know a limit to joy. He breaks away from the barrier, away from the crowd and somehow finds a way to the restricted entryway and into my arms. My mother follows and then my brother. Everyone is all smiles. And my heart is full.
That stretch of tile flooring that I walk for less than 5 minutes as my family rushes to pour out their affection is by far my favorite spot in the world. I’d venture to say it has more meaning than any other place on the island for me. There, in that moment, I pinpoint pure happiness and a perfect balance to life, of things going back to harmony because a family is reunited.
There’s love in a smile, in a hug, and in a glance. And I know it’s not just me. I can see it in the faces of others around me coming back home or visiting someone here for the first time. Anything can happen once we step outside, but it doesn’t really matter when you’ve been met with warmth and greeted by love, and when the gap created by distance is shut tight for that moment, in that embrace.
Maybe it’s only true for traveling back home, but I venture to guess it’s true of all travel, whether it’s when you visit a friend in another country or come back from a trip that’s grown you in leaps and bounds, but that you realize hasn’t lessened your appreciation for the people you love.
I hope the more I travel, the more I understand that feeling, because it’s valuable, and not everyone has the good fortune of feeling it. I don’t want to forsake it, but instead cherish it, at the same level or even more than everything else I already love about travel.
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