Smell the Roses

You would think people who travel a lot would be curious about the world around them. Maybe if they are on vacation and leave their laptops behind and let their cell phone batteries run down. But business travel is different.

One airport is like another. One cab or shuttle is like the next. Sure there are moments on the road when one suddenly notices something novel – Lucky Lindy’s Spirit of St. Louis hanging from the rafters at Lambert Field in St. Louis, say, or the light show that greets you in the lobby of the W hotel in Atlanta. Those are exceptions, however. For the most part I catch myself walking through baggage claim and asking, “Where am I?” I’ve been known to get into cabs with my head buried in my Blackberry when the cab driver turns and asks, “Where to?” and I respond, “I have no clue.”

Sometimes I’ve rented so many cars in a week I can’t find the car in a parking garage to save my life. I once rented a car in Louisville, parked it at a hotel, got a lift to the airport, and forgot about it. A month later I got a call during a dinner party:

“Mr. Mayer, do you have our car?”

“What car?”

“The car you rented from us five weeks ago at Louisville airport.”

“Louisville, I don’t remember being in Louisville.” A pause. “Uh-oh.”

That one cost a pretty penny. I expensed a day and ate the rest. National was nice to charge me only for a month. After all, I hadn’t put a lot of wear and tear on the car!

Recently I arrived in Hartsfield-Jackson Airport in Atlanta. It’s one of those enormous new airports, similar to the ones in Denver or Pittsburgh, where it takes longer to go from Terminal A to D than it does to fly from New York to Rome. You wear out a pair of shoes walking between gates. The one compensation is that these mega-terminals are now like shopping malls. One can actually spend a pleasant couple of hours browsing through the book stores, sipping a cup of coffee, or doing some window shopping. A friend of mine recently asked why somebody doesn’t offer spa services and manicures, for travelers with time on their hands. I forgot to tell her that the last time I flew through Houston I found somebody has done just that.

Back to Atlanta. Another mile-long hike past the national brand name stores. A ride on an escalator past posters of Tiger Woods advertising for Accenture. A ride on the inter-terminal monorail with no conductor and a mellifluous voice repeating over and over: “Approaching Terminal B – B as in ‘Boy’.” Nothing new here.

I arrive at the baggage terminal. I emerge from the homogeneous monorail. I head to the usual escalator. I pass the usual posters.

Then I look up. The escalator is as steep as Mt. Everest, maybe steeper. Fortunately it’s moving. But evidently not fast enough. Somebody brushes alongside me. He’s a young man in a light green camouflage uniform. He is running up the steep stairs. A backpack is bouncing on his back. He holds a small shopping bag in front of him. He’s taking the steps two at a time. Now he takes them three at a time. I get winded just watching him. He climbs and climbs and then he disappears at the top, as if into a cloud.

I start to climb the moving escalator myself. I take the steps slowly at first. Then I quicken my pace. Then I take two at a time. I want to see where the soldier is going. I want to see who he is greeting.

I get to the top of the stairs and emerge into the terminal. In front of me I see the soldier’s back. He is bent over. His backpack is still now. His shopping bag is on the ground. There are two sets of arms around him, holding him. They are frozen. I stand there for a minute, and they stand there, too. There is an older woman and a young woman. And they are holding their soldier and not letting him go.

Behind them is a long sign. It reads: “Welcome to Atlanta.” Five people are holding it up and they wear caps and shirts that read USO. They are smiling. More soldiers in camouflage are coming to the top of the escalator and emerging into the terminal. They are greeted by cheerful cries of “Welcome.” Behind the sign is a long table with volunteers. Atlanta is one of the two major embarkation points for US soldiers returning from the Mideast.

A man in civilian clothes walks past my soldier. As he does so he turns back. “Thank you,” he says, and moves on.

I have been in many airports. After a while I stopped seeing the families saying goodbye. The mothers and fathers flying back after visiting the new grandkids. The college students heading off to a junior year abroad. The husbands and wives going off to take care of the aging parents. At baggage claim I stopped noticing the reunions. The embraces. The tears of happiness.

But I will never forget my soldier. He took the escalator as if it were an enemy bunker on a hilltop. And he won it: for family, for country and for me.