There was something magical about
Denver International Airport from the very second I got there the
other day. There was construction everywhere and despite it being a
Sunday morning before six, the place was buzzing with people and
activity. I walked to Concourse A and went through the security line
there. I was on a flight on Concourse C, but I always walk through
security at A. I’ve been doing it that way for nearly thirty
years.
I was awash with memories in DIA. I always am. The
place has a specific smell that I do not know in other airports. In
fact, I think each of the concourses have their own smells too. As I
walked toward that first concourse, I felt happy, elated, excited.
Not really the feelings one my age has about airports. In fact, I
think most people do not care for airports. But for me, I felt giddy,
like a kid.
Then, it occurred to me. This was the
first journey I’ve made by myself in well over a decade. And if I
really think about it, it may be longer than a decade that I’ve been
in Denver International by myself, going as far back as my grad
school days 2007 to 2009, a time that seems like ancient history to
me now.
I was on my way to the Bay Area, where
I was born. Also where most of my family still lives. I would spend
the day with my father in Castro Valley. And I was going to spend the
week at my cousins’ house in Oakland. My nights in Oakland, anyway.
My days were going to spent at San Francisco Center for the Book. The
trip, although filled with family, was ultimately a week long class
learning how to bind books. So, clearly, the feeling in airport was
natural.
I was grateful to be in San Francisco.
On Monday morning, my cousin dropped me off at the Bart station in
her neighborhood and I rode to the 16th and Mission stop.
I’m familiar with this particular part of town, but I had no been
there in years. Well, at least a decade, anyway. I was eager to see
what the place was like. I hear such horror stories. And the place
looked, at least to me, as it always did.
I walked either 16th or 17th
from the Mission to Potrero Hill. It was about a twenty to
twenty-five minute walk. A twenty-five minute walk after a
twenty-five minute Bart ride. It was an hour on either end of a long
day in class to mentally clear out space, or process what had
happened during the day.
Yes, I learned to make books, four
different structures in fact. I really enjoyed both my instructor and
the other six classmates. I loved the lunch breaks too, everyday it
was sixty-eight degrees and sunny. Perfect, absolutely perfect. I
thought thoughts, something I love to do. I got to see old friends. I
slept peacefully each night in solid eight hour stretches. I thought
about San Francisco and about my family and my past, and my boyhood.
I thought about art and literature. I thought about the weather. I
thought about how if there was no concern about money…
Then I thought about the little town
where I live. The little town where I live in the middle of the
country tucked away in northern Colorado. I thought about how there
were less people in my town than the people I would see on my
commute, twenty-five minutes on Bart and twenty-five minutes walking.
I thought about my home and all the great things I like about it.
Sure, there is no center for the book, no large art scene, no port
and whereas it’s sunny, it’s seldom sixty-eight degrees.
I found a great appreciation for the
town where I live. This is such a different thought for me. I miss
the ocean, I often want to be back on the west coast: somewhere,
anywhere between San Francisco and Astoria. But here, I was, back in
San Francisco, and the greater Bay Area and suddenly I saw the merits
of home and the quiet life that I have. I would say this is something
Kobo Abe might know something about, who knows? But suddenly, for the
first time in my life, I wasn’t distracted with wanting to be
elsewhere.