Airport conversations: Stranger than fiction

By Greg Boyles

October 14, 2008 | I was in the Denver airport a while back waiting for my connecting flight to Salt Lake City when I noticed a young man sporting a yellow and brown checkered shirt walk up, place his bag on an empty seat, and settle in the chair adjacent to it. The seat he'd chosen rested back to back with a young woman, most likely the same age, who was immersed in conversation about tattoos with a Native American woman in her early 40s.

"You have your eye liner tattooed to your eyelid?" asked the young woman in shocked admiration. They began a game of "I'll show you mine if you show me yours" on the subject of tattoos. "I have a butterfly on my ankle, it hurt like hell to get," exclaimed the young woman, rolling up her pant leg to show the Native American woman.

"Yes, the ankle is one of the most sensitive parts of the body", said the Native American woman in motherly wisdom, "When I was younger, and much stupider" -- oh yes, she said stupider -- "I got a spiderweb tattooed around my nipple." And she proceeded to pull down her shirt, just enough to see the top of the spider web. All of this in the middle of a crowded airport.

Many of the surrounding men were suddenly interested in the ongoing conversation, including the young man, who turned around and said, "Hey, I want to see." After the woman again pulled down her top -- this time revealing more of the spider web -- the young man pulled back the left sleeve of his flamboyant cowboy shirt to reveal a traditional peace sign which had been permanently inked into his forearm.

At this point I was trying fervently to jot down every word these tattoo connoisseurs were saying. I sat in a black faux leather terminal chair directly across and four chairs down from the peace sign man. Overhead a monitor was stuck on CNN and bobbing heads were talking about the financial crises.

The area I was in, terminal D, was set up like most across the nation. Groups of five to 10 chairs sat back to back occupied by commuters heading in different direction. Outside, planes taxied by to deliver their patrons to more exotic locations than Utah. Slowly, raindrops began to fall, giving the wings of the Delta CRJ 200s waiting outside a glossy look.

The conversation between the three travelers moved from tattoos, to pets, to loved ones, to potential presidential nominees.

"I'm moving to Canada if McCain is elected. And if he dies and Palin takes over, I'm moving to a different continent all together," exclaimed the Native American woman.

Although I agree with the woman, I was surprised she would announce it to a group of complete strangers. Granted, I'd just witnessed her flash all of terminal D, so my surprise was a little out of place.

Of course there have been many instances when I've said things under the security of knowing I would never again associate with that company.

During one occasion that stands out, I was riding a public bus from the Sheraton Waikiki to the Ala Moana Center in downtown Honolulu. On that ride I had the misfortune of sitting next to a couple who spent the entire 30 minute ride condemning Jews to hell. So as the bus slowed at my stop I leaned forward and revealed to the couple that I was a practicing reformed Jew. Truth is I don't know the first thing about Judaism, but the looks on their faces were priceless, and something needed to be said.

This though came to me as I watched the odd mix of strangers bounce ideas off one another. The banter continued for roughly 10 minutes before the Native American woman politely exited the conversation and dove into Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert.

This left the young man in the ugly checkered shirt and the young woman with the butterfly tattoo alone in an unsupervised conversation. The young man tried valiantly to keep the young woman's attention. They continued their conversation about politics, which quickly gave way to sports -- how this transition happened, I do not know -- and came to rest on the topic of future careers. Soon, however, they lapsed into awkward silence and began to fiddle with their cell phones. The young woman was the first to turn around and abandon any hope of future conversation, while the young man held onto hope for a few more seconds before giving up and turning to examine his shoes.

I watched the young man who was now facing me and realized he was not he least bit fazed by this. Within seconds he had put his iPod on and ventured off down the terminal to, I'm sure, infiltrate another conversation. By the time the young man was out of sight, the young woman had already made two phone calls and slumped deep into her chair to begin napping.

As I put my laptop away and thought about what I'd just witnessed, it dawned on me that unlike tattoos that are forever stained into the bodies of these traveling strangers, a conversation held in an airport terminal seems to hold no consequence.

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