Crying in public is almost never acceptable. I know because of the looks I get when I do it. I get sad too, ok? And not always when I’m conveniently in a lead room with no windows and a box of tissues. (That would, perhaps, be a little too convenient.) When it happens, it’s the most embarrassing thing in the world and I wish I were bleeding or something instead; it’d certainly be easier to staunch the flow.
If I end up crying in public (and boy, has that happened more often than I would like). It’s most certainly not done for attention – I’d cut off my own head rather than let people see. But if the sadness or frustration or onions are overwhelmingly near the surface, out they will come, no matter who’s around and there’s nothing I can do til they subside. I’m like a kind of wet Incredible Hulk. Thank God my clothes don’t tear, too.
In airports, though, you can weep your noggin off and no-one will bat an eyelid. I noticed that yesterday when I was at one. It’s been a long time since I’ve hung around the Arrivals section, but I was meeting the fiancé off a particularly horrendous flight and of course he was delayed and of course the place was rammed. Going to Heathrow and for once not being stressed about making a flight myself or forgetting to put all my liquid items into someone else’s sandwich bags, I noticed that people actually start saying goodbye somewhere around Hammersmith. The grips on each other’s hands get tighter. Conversations are brighter and more forced. Eyes are dewy and loaded with tear-bombs, waiting to be dropped when they can be held no longer.
Departures is a messy business at the best of times; at Christmas, it’s actually not so bad. Most people leaving a large city this week are going to wherever home is for just as long as it’ll take to show their families that they care, but not long enough that they want to harm them with kitchen utensils. Their time away will be, in short, short. Arrivals is a different matter. Tense people of every background you could name strain against flimsy barriers to try to catch the first glimpse they’ve had – possibly in years – of their loved ones. They would kill you with their elbows alone if you tried to get in front of them. When that golden creature emerges (nearly an hour and a half after landing – you’ve seen the news; airports have been kinda busy this week) they leap from their spot into that person’s arms in one single bound. They smile. They embrace. Then they cry. And cry. And cry. It becomes mesmerising as they sway, eyes clamped shut, knuckles white with the holding on. You couldn’t prise them apart with a sledgehammer and still, they cry: it’s a wonder little tear-puddles don’t form at their feet. I don’t recommend witnessing this to anyone with a weak heart.
It’s one of the most annoying things about perennial Christmas “favourite” Love, Actually: the pristine airport catch-up scene at the end. It’s inaccurate on so many levels. It’s supposed to be London, probably Heathrow; show me a bit of Heathrow that’s that clean and well-lit? Where are all the really poorly stocked shops and one café? And why is everyone at Arrivals pristinely dressed and smiling? This doesn’t happen. Waiting to see whether your loved one or relative is alive and well or requiring of medical attention for DVT – especially when you haven’t seen them in years – is a tense time. Feck off, white-toothed Curtis clones: You are airport liars.
When I got a text saying that clearing customs was taking at least an hour, I eschewed the one café and went to the half a bar. I ordered a glass of white wine which came out of a tap (mmm…airporty) and watched the travel chaos news on the TV with the sound down and the subtitles on. These were being written, it seems, by a 14 year old versed only in text speak (court being written in a context where it could only have been caught was one of the many best bits, innit?) so that was very entertaining. Also trying to lip-read and then see, moments later, if I was right. I mostly wasn’t.
I told myself that I was having a change of scene to while away the hour, but really, I had to get away from the raw emotion of the main concourse. I needed that glass of tap wine. I was so exhausted, I could have cried. But I wasn’t in a lead room: I was in Wetherspoons and although the two are not dissimilar, I didn’t want to add to the puddles. Maybe next time.
