In the chaotic crush of travel, an oasis of calm

I’m old enough to remember when air travel was a pleasure and an adventure. But I don’t recall exactly when it became an exercise in frustration. From frequently canceled flights and endless fees, to the hustle of security, cramped seating, and minimal – or absent – food service, it’s no wonder I now find the experience burdensome. 

On one such recent flight, I had a stopover at Charlotte Douglas International Airport in North Carolina. Like most airports, it housed a mad rush of travelers. But there was an inviting gloss: On the periphery of the crowded concourse the airport had placed a long row of rocking chairs. With two hours until my connecting flight, I immediately claimed one, seated myself, and began to gently rock as I observed the passing scene.

Once I was comfortably ensconced in my rocker, a fixed point in space, I was struck by how briskly everyone else was moving, a marathon race of humanity. I felt as if I were sitting on the shore of a raging river, grateful that I was not awash in the current. And so I rocked and pondered, and quietly nurtured the gratitude of a man who had been gifted an oasis of calm amid the chaos.

And then, as if the rockers weren’t enough, the second act: There was a grand piano on the other side of the concourse. An older man appeared, sat down, and began to play. His touch was so loving, so invested with feeling, that I no longer felt that I was in an airport. Rather, the pianist and I were now in the oasis together. I no longer heard the hubbub of the crowd, but only the strains of the beautiful melodies the man was conjuring from his instrument. They were old standards: “Till There Was You,” “How Great Thou Art,” “Bye Bye Blackbird,” “Louise,” “The Very Thought of You,” and on and on. But the benefit of the man’s music went beyond the lifting of my spirits. There was something larger and more magical at work.

As soon as the music commenced, the entire tone of the airport changed. People began to walk more slowly. Many paused to regard the pianist. A man put down his bags, placed his hands on his hips, and began to sway to the cascading rhythms. Now, at last, we were all in this together. I rocked, the man swayed, the pianist played, and the savage pace of modern transit slowed to something resembling a stroll in a familiar neighborhood.

I could not get enough of it. There was a tip jar on the piano, and I watched as it steadily filled with bills. I was gratified to see the number of children who made contributions. My two-hour interlude passed all too quickly, but the pianist played on. For a moment I dithered, wondering whether I should choose between my flight and more music, more rocking. But I had family waiting for me back in Maine, so I arose and approached the piano. I took out several bills and stuffed them into the jar, which was now overflowing. Borrowing a line from the movie “Jaws” (“You’re going to need a bigger boat”), I remarked, “My friend, you’re going to need a bigger tip jar. Thank you for helping me pass the time.” 

The piano player flashed me an appreciative smile. I left him reluctantly, like a man hesitant to take leave of a loved one. My flight would not prove to be a pleasure or an adventure, but the experience on the ground was both.