The people of airports fascinate the hell outta me.
I walk through the world looking for things that inspire me, make me laugh, or remind me there is still goodness worth passing along. Airports, however, can be a tough crowd.
This past July at LAX, I watched people rush and push without making eye contact. Grown adults shuffled by in jammies and slippers. Earbuds protected them from accidental conversation. Families sat together at tables, each person devoted to a separate screen. A defibrillator hung beside the entrance to Burger King, which felt either very practical or oddly prophetic. The whole scene made my heart hurt.
Did it always feel this way? I remember when people spoke to one another in public places. We let our guards down long enough to offer a small piece of ourselves, and sometimes a stranger offered a piece back.
Last July, while turning all of this over in my mind, I ducked into the United Club at LAX, terminal 7 to be exact. All those bills I run through United credit cards were finally earning their keep. I like to sit at the bar, not necessarily to drink, but because it is the easiest place to end up in a conversation. I was hoping for a story.
Then Irene arrived.
She was an older woman who chose the seat right beside me, even though most of the large horseshoe-shaped bar was empty. She ordered a prosecco, turned toward me, held out her hand, and said, "Hi, I'm Irene." She had an elfish, almost mischievous enthusiasm that was bubblier than her beverage. Jesus - yes, that was our bartender's name, which felt rather appropriate later - smiled at her warmth and soon found himself happily drifting in and out of our conversation as he worked.
Irene and I began with the usual airport questions. Where are you headed? Where is home? She lived only twenty minutes away and was flying to Virginia to meet her new granddaughter. Her flight left at nine that evening. I looked at my watch. It was a little after noon.
"Was your flight delayed?" I asked.
"Oh, no," she said. "I come this early on purpose."
I stared at her. Who comes to an airport nine hours early on purpose? Now I needed to know everything about this woman.
"Why?" I asked.
Irene swept her hand toward the room. "Why, look around. All this abundance!"
So, I looked. This time I really looked. Sunlight poured through walls of windows. A buffet fit for a king stretched across the room. Outside, planes sat neatly parked beneath a marvelous blue sky. For a moment, I saw the airport through Irene's eyes, and everything felt like a gift.
She called these long hours before a flight her "mini vacay." She enjoyed the lunch buffet, then eventually the dinner buffet, and never once had to sprint toward a gate dragging a suitcase and a bad attitude. Mostly, she came early because she loved being around people. Then her voice softened. She told me she was often lonely at home. I admitted that I felt lonely sometimes, too. It is possible to be surrounded by people and still ache for human company. All around us, travelers stared into their devices. Irene and I kept talking.
Three hours passed like three minutes. She gave me belly laughs, a fresh pair of eyes, and a reason to take a selfie with a near stranger in an airport lounge. We exchanged numbers, I wished her a beautiful visit with her granddaughter, and I stepped back into the halls of planes and people.
From the outside, nothing remarkable had happened. Three people talked at a bar. But I carried that afternoon with me. I walked to my gate a little more slowly, looked into people's eyes, and offered smiles instead of rushing past them.
I decided to put the Irene Philosophy to the test.
On my next trip through Denver International Airport, I arrived with at least three hours to spare. This was wildly unnatural behavior for me, but personal growth is rarely convenient. At the United Club, I struck up a conversation with the bartender and told him all about Irene.
I asked whether he noticed the sadness beneath the hurried, harried airport routine. He looked around the room and said, "Absolutely. No one talks to each other anymore." He told me how much he appreciated the people who took the time to talk with him.
Such a simple thing, letting someone know you see them. Yet we often withhold it because we are busy, guarded, or trying very hard to look cool. Sometimes the kindest thing we can do is risk looking like a dork and stick out a hand: "Hi, I'm Irene." Or Nancy. Or Jesus, for that matter.
When it was time for my flight, the young bartender came bounding around the counter and gave me a big bear hug. Then, with complete seriousness, he said, "Oh, and please tell Irene I said hi."
I beamed all the way to my gate. Irene's hello had traveled from a bar in Los Angeles to a bar in Denver, carried by two bartenders and one woman who was learning the spiritual discipline of arriving early.
That is the strange power of being present. It is contagious. A sincere hello can turn a lonely place human again.
So here is my invitation: Look up. Take out the earbuds. Sit beside someone, even when there are plenty of empty seats. Offer your name. Ask a question and stay long enough to hear the answer.
And if you happen to meet a mischievous woman enjoying a prosecco and an all-day buffet at the United Club, please tell Irene I said “Hi”.
Nancy