Hello, Goodbye

Last night my husband and I drove his youngest brother to the airport to catch his flight back to Barcelona. My mother-in-law had mentioned that she wanted to go, but then she changed her mind. As the car drew away from her house last night, she waved and put her hand over her heart. This brother-in-law has always been her favorite. Probably because he is the youngest. My husband always complained that when they were single and went out on weekend nights with friends, his brother could come home the next morning and there wouldn't be any problem. But if he did the same, he'd get beaten with the broom. 

At the airport we had some doubts about my brother-in-law's suitcase. He opted to pay for a suitcase weighing a maximum of fifteen kilos, but it felt like a lot more. His intention hadn't been to take anything more than a carry-on bag, but his mother, in true Galician fashion, urged him to take things back with him. Such as homemade orujo, a type of Spanish grappa distilled from the leftover grape hulls after making wine. She also packed some steaks from last year's pig and probably peppers from her garden and heaven knows what else. She assured me she hadn't put in a butchered chicken. In the end, it weighed twenty kilos. He had to check in his carry-on bag, which was mostly empty, to compensate the extra weight in the suitcase. Otherwise he would have had to pay up to fifty euros extra. Mothers.

But it wasn't a happy moment like when he had arrived. That day, despite the lack of personality in the arrival area, there was a charge that was almost electrical, of happiness. Families were gathered around the railing in front of the opaque doors, straining to see their loved ones every time they opened. People coming out, getting a sweet shock and stretching lively smiles as soon as they saw those waiting to take them home. Children running out in front of their parents and throwing themselves at grandparents. Relatives and friends hugging, talking at the same time. There was a happiness that brought tears to the eyes. But not last night. As people weaved their way between the tapes to the entrance to the security area, friends and family waved goodbye. As the travellers passed the security arc and collected their belongings from the bins, on our side of the glass wall people watched for a last glimpse. With a last wave my brother-in-law went towards his gate and my husband and I turned around and went to collect the car downstairs.

I was reminded of a video on youtube I saw a couple of years ago, of a young couple that had had to emigrate to a Caribbean country to have decent jobs. They made a surprise trip home to Valencia to visit their parents. The joy at the beginning of the video, the shocks of the parents when they saw their children. And then the sadness as they had to drive their children back to Madrid to their flight. So many have gone to different cities or countries, just because where they live there was no opportunity. I have this brother-in-law in Barcelona and another one in Palma de Mallorca, where he married and now has two children. I am a product of emigration, having grown up in the United States. I have cousins I know nothing about in Argentina and possibly Cuba. My husband has aunts, uncles and cousins in France and the Canary Islands. 

All this makes an airport more than a simple transit spot where you can get transportation to far and distant cities. It becomes a spot of great joy and of bottomless pain. Many who pass through are strangers or are simply going somewhere for a couple of weeks. But for many families, an airport is where people have said goodbye for the last time before death made its appearance, or where grandparents and sometimes fathers discover new children who are maybe two or three years old, and yet have never seen before except in pictures. It is a place intimately linked to family histories in this area.

And now we have to wait for the next visit, hopefully at Christmas.