O’Hare International Airport is busy. And by “busy,” I mean “an organized soccer riot.” There are people everywhere. Elbowing. Shoving. Shouldering their way through the crowds. Charging their way up escalators. Jogging past terminals. People of all shapes. All kinds. All haircuts.
Our flight departs in a few minutes. We are flying to Greece. I will be running the Athens Marathon next week. And if everything goes right, I’ll be writing about it as the adventure unfolds. That is, if I survive the full-contact sport of airport-terminal grabass.
The aggression in this place is astounding. I just got sideswiped by a small elderly woman who stormed past me on the moving walkway, grumbling at me under her breath, repeatedly barking the F-word. And I don’t mean “Fantastic.”
I will be meeting my friend Joice in Athens. Joice is running this marathon for her birthday, competing in the seventy-year-old division. And although I am decades younger, I submitted my race times and attempted to enroll in the same age division. Officials looked over my information and said I did not qualify. I am too slow.
The Athens Marathon is technically the world’s oldest marathon route. According to legend, in 490 BC Pheidippedes ran from the battlefield of Marathon to Athens, in the nude. When he arrived, he fell over and died of exhaustion. But not before bearing news of victory, crying, “We won!” In honor of this historic event, it’s customary for runners, upon crossing the finish, to disrobe and drop dead.
I’ve run marathons before. Lots of them. I’m slow. I have even finished dead last a few times. But I love races. I love the community. I love the socialization. Above all, I love the free beer.
I started running as a teenager because I was tired of being called a “fat kid.” And I was even more tired of hating my own body. Running was a way for me to learn to love myself.
This past summer, I made a solemn vow to myself. I promised I’d spend more time with loved ones and friends. Less time with work. More time being kind to myself. Less time spent obsessively writing. More time in quiet. Less time with my phone. I’ve found my morning runs to be meditative moments. And I’ve discovered something even more unreal. I really like hanging out with me. I’ve missed me.
I am thinking about this while massaging my calf muscles, sitting in the waiting area. I am people-watching.
I am a longtime people-watcher. It’s one of my favorite pastimes, with the exception of ham. I’ve been writing people-watching stories for nearly thirteen years, watching from corner tables, diner booths, and hidden coves. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned about humans from all this observation, it’s this:
Nothing.
I’ve learned that you can’t judge anyone by what you see. You can’t even judge them by what you know. Nobody fits into a statistic, a column, or a graph. You never know what lies within one’s innermost soul.
I have met hardened, angry people with spirits dripping with honey. I’ve known beautifully nice people who smile a lot, laugh often, say all the right things, but have cold, unforgiving hearts.
And I’ve seen people like the young woman I am watching right now.
She is pushing a wheelchair through the airport. She is maybe twenty-five. In the chair is a man in his fifties. He appears unable to walk, or even move his torso.
She parks him at a nearby table and wipes saliva from his face and shirt. Then, she begins to feed him.
She must be a nurse, I’m thinking. Or a professional caregiver. The young woman cuts each bit of food into smaller, bite-sized pieces, then smashes the food between her fingers until it’s good and soft. She inserts each bite into the man’s mouth. She uses a straw to drop water onto his tongue. Then she reminds him to chew.
I don’t know how many people notice this girl, but I am watching her go to incredible lengths to feed this man an entire meal, one small bite at a time. I look on with a kind of wonder.
Apparently, I am not the only onlooker because an old woman approaches the young woman. She praises her.
“That’s a very good thing you’re doing,” I overhear the woman say. “Is this your brother?”
“Oh, no,” says the young woman with a laugh. “He’s not my brother. We actually just met this morning.”
“Are you his nurse?”
Another laugh. “No. I’m not a nurse.”
The man chimes in. He explains that he lives in the apartment above this young woman. They were first formally introduced this morning. The man’s mother was supposed to travel with him, but she came down with the flu. So the young woman offered to step in at the last minute.
The old woman is dumbstruck.
“You mean you’re strangers?”
“No, not strangers.” The girl laughs, then places more food into his mouth. “He’s my neighbor.”
Her neighbor.
Yes. I’d say that’s exactly the right word for it.
