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The Transformation
by Camerin Courtney
July 6, 2005
It happened somewhere between gate K17 and baggage claim. My transformation.
I was with my family in O'Hare airport. It was my parents, my sister and brother-in-law, my 2 ½-year-old nephew, and my 89-year-old grandpa. We'd just returned from my cousin's wedding in Lake Tahoe and were on our way home—me to Chicago, and my family to a connecting flight to Kansas City.
I helped them schlep their carry-on baggage, and my stroller-bound nephew, to their next gate and then said a tearful goodbye. After spending six days together at family events and then exploring Tahoe by boat, gondola, and car, it was difficult to part.
Was it really only four days earlier that I escaped to the bathroom in the hotel room I shared with my folks, sat on the edge of the tub and took a few slow deep breaths, thankful for a moment of personal space? Usually I'm a woman who lives alone. Here I was woman without a country.
Our room had one of those open vanities, with only the tub and toilet behind the bathroom door, so even as I was getting ready each morning, there was little time or space to myself. Nothing like having my mother pop by—in her underwear, no less—when I was doing my usual facial contortions to pluck a stray facial hair. Such indignity.
And two days before that, as I was making my way to the gate for my outgoing flight, I stood at the entrance to the terminal for a split second and felt a flood of joyful energy pass through me—the thrill of travel. The bustling parade of people jetting to destinations far and wide, and the blessing of getting to be one of them. I felt energized. Blessed. Alive.
But I fell into a different rhythm over those six days. Instead of exploring a new part of the country on my own, as often seems to be the case as I journey for work or speaking engagements, I was part of a group. A whole party. A family. It wasn't me interacting with the world. It was me interacting with my family in a different part of the world. A subtle yet big difference.
Sure, it wasn't always smooth figuring out where to eat or explore next. Yes, it was difficult making decisions with seven people with differing definitions of what vacation mode is. And of course it took us longer to get everywhere with a toddler and a senior citizen in our crew.
But when we toured around Lake Tahoe on a big paddle-wheel boat, I was able to nudge my sister and point out a lone sailboat in a lovely bay. A few days later, my brother-in-law suggested a horseback ride, which turned out to be a fun, only slightly scary romp up the side of a mountain and back, something I would have never done on my own. When we took a gondola to the top of the nearest mountain, we all marveled together at the spectacular view. We certainly weren't in Kansas anymore. And when we toured a couple mansions dotting the shoreline built by old-money Californians in the 1800s, it was fascinating to hear my grandpa reminisce about his own old-time refrigerator in days gone by.
There were others to help schlep my stuff, pile into a car with, pray over meals with, gawk in awe with, walk funny after riding a horse with. My nephew and I got into a fun groove of air baseball, which morphed into Puppy Ball with his favorite stuffed dog. We often sang "Old MacDonald Had a Farm" as we drove from one tourist destination to the next beautiful vista.
But now, I'm walking away from these fellow travelers. These beloved family members. And I'm becoming a single person again. A solo traveler making her way down the big bustling hallway of O'Hare. I stop in the ladies' room to dry my tear-stained face, then re-emerge in the people flow, back to my usual bob and weave through the crowd, not slowed by any other members in my party.
I grip my shoulder bag and walk a little taller and quicker. I apply a fresh coat of lipstick and futz with my hair. I make eye contact with strangers and spot single men. I notice the elaborately dressed African-looking couple. Were they there when my family and I passed by just moments before? Or do I just have different eyes now?
If a camera was following me, would it capture the little bit of change with each step? Would you be able to trace the subtle transformation like those freeze-frame, fictional drawings of the ape slowly morphing into the man? Only this isn't evolution, just a morphing to alter-ego, alternate universe me.
Usually this process takes place in the air during a flight home or back again. Get on the plane a super-schlepping independent woman. Get off the plane someone's kid. Board the plane a sister/aunt/daughter. Leave the plane a savvy-traveling single. But now the transformation is boiled down to a hallway. Twenty-some-odd gates and an escalator.
As I make my way down the one functioning escalator to baggage claim, I harumph a bit at the fact that the other one is broken down. I am a Woman on the Go, after all. Then I do my usual watching for people on my flight to see which baggage claim is mine, and stand with the other weary travelers watching for the familiar on the assembly line of luggage.
Bag in tow, I call the limo service that will take me back to my car in my office-building parking lot. Then I make my way out to the curb to wait patiently for a Town Car with 16147 on the plates. I nod at a fellow wait-er or two. Check my cell for messages. Mentally decide where I'll stop for dinner later. Wonder what country my driver will be from this time, and what quirky conversations will mark my ride home. I've done this drill dozens of times. I know it well. I am independent. I am capable. I am strong.
A woman with her baggage standing in the humid summer air. Silently humming "Old MacDonald Had a Farm." And smiling.
Camerin welcomes your feedback and brainstorms at: SinglesNewsletter@ChristianityToday.com
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