Sometimes I feel like my life is all airports.

When break comes, I book flights, I pack for flights, I get rides from my nice friends for flights. I always pack too much and struggle to get my top-heavy suitcase down the stairs in my dorm. I have perfected the art of packing too much for a week-long break; I have yet to perfect the art of packing for a month-long break. Because of this, every December I make the ten-hour drive home. I arrive at my house in New Hampshire, my car overfilled with my clothes and books and my floor littered with containers that formerly held caffeinated beverages. Exhausted, but happy.
When I fly, I fly into Logan Airport in Boston. It’s a maze of terminals and gates, and I always get lost. Eventually, I find my way out to my waiting family, where we share hugs and the hour-and-a-half trip home.

When you leave the Logan parking garage, you’re greeted with a giant billboard that proclaims “Welcome to Boston.” The New-Englander in me gets excited at this, because it’s not only the fact that I’m at home—-I’m in the place that I love.

It is March, and there is less than two months to graduation. I have a very vague clue what I am going to do. I’m going to graduate, go home, and eat whoopie pies. Also, about a year from graduation, I’m getting married. So that’s my plan. Whoopie pies and a wedding. I’m thinking purple for the color scheme. My fiancé is not too fond of this idea.
I am fond of Chestertown in the spring, and this year I am also aware that the warmer it gets, the closer it is to graduation. When I leave, I will miss here, and I will not. I have lived in five states—-if you include my college-related residency, six—- and I’m used to it by now. Perhaps that’s why I feel on equal turns that my life is all airports and traveling, and, at the same time, that I am too sedentary. My friends all go on trips, study abroad, and I am here. Just here.

I know this is different, this leaving. But when you’re bogged down by work and still not getting enough sleep, it’s hard to be wistful about the times that you’re still experiencing.  Someday, I’ll trademark my memories, and they’ll be called ‘Fun Timez™’. The ‘z’ makes it fun. There will be trips to Stam’s and Sam’s and my constant over-pronunciation of one to make it distinct from the other. There will be walks to Roses to buy useless items that later come in very handy, and my fascination with the Dollar Tree because you can get anything there. ANYTHING.  There’s also that quaint small-town stuff like farmers markets and garage sales and the Dunkin Donuts that closes at five. (Although, to be honest, I don’t really find them closing at five ‘quaint’; I find it an obstacle in my quest for coffee.)

It’s hard to go through all these experiences and pick a favorite, or even two or three, and that’s why I try not to. But when I do, I always return to my love, writing.

I’ve been privileged to meet, spend time with, and even read with some of the visiting writers to this campus. I’ve helped organized literary festivals and driven people to the airport. And someday, I hope a college student comes to pick me up from the airport in a car that they’ve tried to clean but is a little worse for wear to read on their campus. And when that day comes, I really hope someone shows up. Reading to yourself is helpful, but not very fun.

Along with these experiences, I’ve learned a lot. I don’t just mean what I’ve learned in the classroom—such as the fact that Lord Byron had a dancing bear (See! Dreams do come true). I’ve learned a lot of other things, and I don’t want to sound cliché, but it’s true. I’ve learned what is important to me, and what’s not.

One thing I’ve learned is this: everyone I love is on the other side of an airport. My parents, my fiancé, those amazing peanut butter whoopie pies that I cheat on with mediocre cakes and cookies in the dining hall—-they all are on the other side of the baggage claim of Logan. And that’s why, when my plain touches down on the runway, and the captain comes on the intercom and thanks me for flying and I can see the terminal and the skyline, I smile.

Welcome to Boston. Welcome home.

by Allison Novak ‘10