First, unless said airport is in a Third World war zone, somebody has already done all the decorating for you…all you gotta do is go, "Oooh!" and "Ahhhh!" The downside is that you’ll pay 25 bucks for some weak-assed cappuccino and a cinnamon roll, but at least it’s Christmas.
Second, it’s such a pleasant window into a less crazed way to live one’s life. I can actually hear myself think in Schipol Airport today. So far, not a single person has bumped into me with a luggage trolley. There’s no need to rush to the gate, because like the flight from Nairobi to Amsterdam, the plane probably won’t be full.
Some things never change though. Every now and then, the blood curdling, nerve shattering squeals of a hungry, sleep-deprived infant or toddler remind you of where you are. But for a single female traveler with no children, even that is a gift. It reminds you that no matter how worn out you might be from your journey, at least you don’t have to deal with THAT bullshit.
In fact, I spent a few minutes’ extended reverie considering the pluses of being unattached with no family obligations on Christmas Day. First, I didn’t have to spend the past week cooking, cleaning, shopping and wrapping. Most mothers are so exhausted by Christmas morning, the thought of serving dinner later in the day is lodged in their brain like a lump of coal. Fathers may be game helpers, but they’re also wondering how the hell they’re gonna pay those credit card bills come January.
And that’s if they’re even still married to each other. If not, Christmas is more a day of recriminations that celebrations. After the protracted battle about who gets the kids on which holiday, and what time they need to be returned home, and how much did he spend on HIS kids versus that other bitch’s kids, a parent might be pardoned for feeling less than merry.
Yep, I was really feeling mighty smug for a minute there! Bought some $35 Chanel mascara and thought, “Shopping for myself is so freakin’ stress free!” But seconds later, a bow-legged toddler in a fuschia onesie stumbled across my path. She had a short, curly 'fro and skin the color of Crème Caramel Bailey’s Irish liquor. She was probably Sudanese, or Ethiopian, or Somali. Whatever she was, she was so precious, I SERIOUSLY could have done a bid for shoving her into my carry-on bag.
This cherub had taken it upon herself to toddle away from her mother in search of her errant big sister, In that squeaky, half-duck, half Munchkin voice that people under age 3 have perfected so well, this little girl stood directly in my path, her little brow knitted and her arms extended, and cried, “Ha-DEEE-ja! Ha-DEEE-ja!” And she kept yelling and gesturing until Hadija bopped over from wherever she’d been roaming, her long curls flopping wildly.
All of a sudden, I got it. THAT’S why you’d work yourself to exhaustion and go into debt and link every beat of your heart to someone or something other than yourself. That’s what makes the Christmas Crazies worth it.
Still, I’m thoroughly enjoying sitting here drinking my weak-assed cappuccino and watching the Christmas snowfall at Schiphol airport on Christmas Day, 2009. Maybe one day, I’ll even have a reason to make sure I’m NOT in an airport on Christmas morning. Until then, this feels right.
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