Jakov's Suite

That the world is not one, that the world is not whole, that perhaps I must decide to get away from all this, that if I want to make something of myself, then at the same time I must leave all that is mine behind me, all I can do and all that I know; leave these people sitting on the doorsteps outside the house where I live, drinking coffee and talking about all that they know, say goodbye to them forever. And if that is what I must do to develop myself, as they say, then what is the point of it all?
-Per Petterson

This is leaving, being in an airport, left, there is no place or time in here but it is supposed to be California, but is a nation, a day, a life away from Home. Leaving is being alone at Yankee Pier, a classy restaurant for an airport, drinking pinot grigio next to a balding, round-faced, fair-skinned man who recommends the clam chowder. I am immediately overcome with sadness for him and us and the airport, but in the middle of the wine, we talk at length about college (his daughter just graduated, an English major at the University of Portland), and Burlington (it's nice), and wind power (a good idea, a growing industry), and Israel in the summer of 1969 (he went, returned right before Woodstock). He is inquisitive and congenial and interested, mistakes me for an adult, thanks me for the conversation. I mourn his absence when he leaves to catch his plane home, unsurprisingly as I always become attached to former strangers who reveal humanity and kindness and daughters who are English majors.

I agree with the waiter when he suggests another glass of wine, then wonder if this moment of presumed celebration-- I am a human, an adult; at least enough to have ripped myself from the womb of comfort to selfishly fulfill my fantasy; for the time being, able to pay seven dollars a glass for Oregon wine served by a dapper waiter who says please when he places the glass squarely on the square napkin on the square table for one-- is actually one of sad submission to this airport lifestyle that confuses me, tempts me, and I want to--do-- loathe in its impermanence, this symbol of our willingness to be uprooted, this embodiment of our fossil-fueled self-indulgence that will soon bring this country and the world down with it.

People at other tables engage in minuscule talk with strangers seated far away at adjacent tables. All of these people have homes and people that love them, but I imagine them perpetually awaiting their planes, always exchanging niceties with new strangers, running from the people and places they don't know if they love, listening to the taupest of ten-year-old radio hits in airport restaurants, and alone in their thoughts away from empty banter and cell phone companionship, pause to wonder who sings these songs but cannot remember.




I think I might split in two.
-Per Petterson