I am getting ready to leave for Baku, Azerbaijan. (To those who aren't sure where that is, here are the rough coordinates: Go past Iran and keep going 'til you are very nearly to Armenia, then land with the Caspian to your left.) I'm excited about the trip and also nervous, which feels about right.
I am flying Turkish Airlines to Istanbul and then changing for another Turkish flight from Istanbul to Baku. My flight is completely full and -- rough estimate here -- 90 percent of the passengers are Turkish. Maybe it's more like 95 percent.
At check-in, I watched as a young man, probably 22 or so, kissed and hugged his parents. The line snaked its way to the security area where only passengers are allowed. The young man and his parents began to cry. I don't speak Turkish but I don't have to in order to know what they were saying: I love you, be safe, I'll miss you, I love you, be safe, I'll miss you.
A stunningly beautiful woman to my left, held a fat, beautiful, little brown baby in her arms and waved and blew kisses to relatives or friends seeing her off. She was crying.
This isn't an unusual airport scene, especially not in a place like New York, where families unite and part every minute of the day.
What strikes me, as I watch this scene, is the obvious point: at the end of the day, we are the same. We want the same things. We want our loved ones to be safe. We want to love and be loved. We want to feel that hug and that kiss and we want to know that we will have opportunities ahead -- in the future -- to see one another again.
I am nearly moved to tears by this simple thought. It could be the fact that simple thoughts are among the most profound. That with each passing day I am more and more aware of my humanity and my frailty and my strength. Every day miracles move me. Every day gifts.
Now, at the gate, I look around. I see that, so far, I am the only blond on the flight. And I am the only woman without a head scarf. We are 375 or so people traveling to Istanbul. I am Jewish; most of my fellow travelers are Muslims. We are the passengers of TK 0002. We want the same thing: a safe flight, a smooth ride, a quiet and clean neighbor who doesn't smell or snore too loudly or fart. A baby that sleeps. A safe landing. And, of course, the certainty of safe return to those we leave behind.
Taken like this, it all seems so simple. Peaceful co-existence, if not friendship, seems possible.
As I write this, a group of students performs a song at the gate next to mine. They are traveling to Uzbekistan. Two of the girls wear head scarves; two wear short shorts. Their voices are high and delightfully and unabashedly off-key. I nearly cry for the innocence. Others around me, including (funny enough) the gorgeous woman with the happy brown baby, smile and clap for the students. We smile at one another.
Is it me or is there a possibility for connection in nearly everything? I leave for a new experience, excited by the possibilities this experience will yield. I am grateful for the newly awakened appreciation for what is possible. And what is front of me.
[My next posting will be from Baku!]
