Caffeinated Politics

It was a beautiful night in Madison. Clear skies and the temperature was 46 degrees. For November at 9 PM, I call that a win. As such. I put the top down on the convertible and set off to pick my better half up from Dane County Airport. With many days of news stories about flight delays and cancellations at airports, I was heartened to have followed James’ non-eventful trip from Bangor, Maine, to Reagan National, and then seamlessly onwards to Madison. I parked the car, grabbed my book, and entered the terminal, which seemed cavernous during the slower hours of the day.

An airport terminal is among the best people-watching places to be found. While it is impossible to know the stories that are playing out as passengers depart or others having landed glide down the escalator, it is reasonable to conclude there are tears of goodbye and joyous smiles at reunions. As I landed in a truly comfortable leather-like chair in sight of the gated store that sold books and baseball hats, and mementoes of Madison, I looked about at the others seated and waiting. The chairs were as comfortable as those found in some movie theatres. As I looked about at the people, it dawned on me that this was a strange theater of anticipation. I happened to be the only one looking around. Everyone except one person had eyes cast down and locked on their phone. The one person not so engaged was next to me, an older man reading the paper edition of the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel.

As he turned the pages, that rustling sound, something that is fading away as the newspaper industry morphs due to the digital age, made me smile. I was about to open my book, its spine creased from use, and place myself in 1936 Britain. But he looked up and caught my smile and said hello. I quickly explained the sound of his newspaper pages turning in light of everyone else having their phone out started what turned into a briskly paced conversation that took us up to the landing of the American aircraft.

He had been in the army, starting out in 1963 as the American journey in Vietnam was still in its infancy. In short order, we covered some history, appreciation of other cultures, and how we used to like the public announcements over the speakers in the terminal as to when planes were landing.

The conversation was just fun. I told him my dad was always one to strike up a chat with someone he did not know, telling me when young that everyone is a stranger until you start to talk. I glanced about from time to time as we hopped from topic to topic, and around us, everyone else was bent over scrolling, tapping, and swiping. The terminal should have been a place for waiting together but for the majority seated, they were waiting alone. Meanwhile, the two of us were seemingly throwbacks to another age.

As I think about that interaction, it reminds me of something I would argue is natural and essential. There was a time when waiting in an airport terminal meant looking up, catching a stranger’s eye, perhaps striking up a conversation. A newspaper headline could spark debate; a book cover might invite curiosity. These small exchanges, though fleeting, unplanned, were the stuff of public life. They were how we once lived: not as isolated figures but as neighbors, fellow travelers, companions in the shared space of time.

James and I do not own a cell phone. Not now nor at any time in the past 25 years. We have a landline in our home, and my husband runs his busy guardianship business on that line. Working in radio and in a statehouse office, I learned that if you have numerous phone lines, they will incessantly ring. Often at the same time. (I really dislike ringing phones.) So when I urge folks to put their phone down, I do so not as a rejection of progress (I blog, podcast, and love technology) but as a reclamation of what has been lost due to the now ever-present gadget. I urge a step back toward the art of talking, of listening, of finding connection in the ordinary walks of life. Healthy social interaction is not measured in likes or notifications but in the warmth of a smile due to a rustling newspaper page, the cadence of a well-told story, and the recognition that we are not alone in the airport terminal waiting lounge.

Writing this column about finding conversation in the most transient of places, an airport terminal, is because I want to simply plant the seed of what might be found when looking up from the screen and meeting the person beside you. People used to really live like this all the time.