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| My ukulele and & I during an 8 hour layover in Washington DC. |
Call it what you want. ‘In transit’. A layover. A stopover. Or time spent briskly walking (or running) to a connecting flight. But, regardless of the decided upon term, these are additional and unnecessary hours tacked onto one’s journey, undeniably the least anticipated portion of the trip. In the span of five short weeks, from the last week in August to the first in October, I spent nearly 24 hours in transit. Yes, that's an entire day's worth of travel twiddling my thumbs in an unfamiliar airport.
At the end of August I closed out my one-year stint with the South African Supplier Diversity Council and spent 36 hours traveling from Johannesburg to Hawaii, by way of London, San Francisco, and Los Angeles. Over the next five weeks I made my way slowly back to Johannesburg by way of San Francisco, New York, Washington DC and Dakar (Senegal).
Now, relative to the entire duration of my vacation, my mere one day in transit may not sound like much in retrospect, but when you’re sitting in an uncomfortable lame excuse of a chair for 8 hours, or being herded like cattle through Disneyland-like queues for hours, (except there’s no fanatical ride at the end), a total of 24 hours spent as only a means to arriving at your ultimate destination - is a fucking long time.
Pardon my ranting, because as the blog’s title suggests - there is some light at the end of the tunnel, and it’s not a bright white light.
Rather, the beauty of being in transit is the notion of finding peace and tranquility whilst caught in an alternate universe. You find yourself in a world that is between here and there, departure and arrival, starting point and destination. You’re stuck in limbo, forced to sit and simply ‘be’ in a space that is a trivial chapter when compared to the entire journey.
In most cases, you don’t leave the airport at all, which makes this alternate universe even more real. You could spend more than 5 hours ‘in’ Frankfurt, Hong Kong, or Tokyo without ever actually exploring the city (all of which I’ve done). In the end, you depart from a city without ever actually becoming acquainted with it.
Particularly when you travel solo like me, you may learn to realize beauty in the anonymity of it all. Where else can I sit and play my ukulele for hours without fear of being judged by those around me? While I’m not one to care what others think of me in the first place, this trait becomes elevated when I know I’ll never see these surrounding faces again. I can debark from a 15 hour flight feeling confident whilst appearing hideously crazy - no makeup, no contacts, and bed head for days. But again, who cares right? I don't know anyone here, and no one knows me. It’s in these very moments that you learn how to enjoy the company of thyself, because let’s be honest - if you don’t enjoy your own company then who the hell else will? In times of solo travels, I become my own best friend.
I find beauty in the juxtaposition of reveling in my own bubble, while being surrounded by thousands of people at the same time. In the middle of it, there's endless time and space to reflect and process - necessary exercises for one's sanity when the only constant in your quick-moving life, is change.
