The Airport Hotel

"Seven, eight, nine...

just one more Madeline

...ten!"

Thrilled to finish my last set of clam shells, with a line of sweat decorating my forehead, a slight headache, and a new stain on my socks, I released my breath in the corner of Baggage Claim 2 in the Athens Airport at roughly 4 a.m.

Venice Marco Polo Airport

Leonardo da Vinci–Fiumicino Airport

Three days after my college graduation, allowing my post-grad emotional heartbreak little time to set in, I was off to Europe for an adventure. This is, of course, a quintessential American "finding myself before I start a real job" requirement. My calendar for the next three and a half weeks was as follows:

1. 8:30 a.m. dentist appointment

2. 5:00 p.m. dinner with Allie

3. Norway

4. Greece

5. Malta

6. Lisbon

7. Dublin

   
   

As I waited to meet up with my family friends in Greece following a 24-hour layover in the motherland, I did what every twenty-two-year-old enjoys in the prime of her life at three in the morning on a Saturday: physical therapy. Now, I am no novice in physical therapy (PT). The laundry list that is Madeline includes an extensive set of injuries that comes with years of PT. It's been nine years, but who's counting?

I recently underwent hip surgery in March, two months before graduation, so I was fighting a timeline to be healthy for this trip. Making use of my seven hours in the airport after booking the cheapest possible flight I could find to Europe, I found myself a nice corner to complete my exercises. I made myself at home with a dinner of accumulated S'Mores Zbars from the Villanova student-athlete weight room, a binge of Sex and the City, and a space for PT.

Not much imagination was required for me to see the Athens Security Guard's look of disdain at my quick ability to nest when she told me twice over to leave. I thought she was kicking me out to the streets.

College educated. On the streets. Good work Madeline.

After we overcame the language barrier and her frantic hand signals began to make sense, my evening homelessness fears subsided and I moved my nest just over to the arrival zone.

The Vatican Museum in Rome

Similar feelings of College educated. On the streets. Good work Madeline. came to fruition when I spent a night in the Rome Airport two months later and again in Venice recently. This makes a tally of 4 now (we don't talk about the first). Have I normalized doing physical therapy in the airport in Athens, testing the limits of my earplugs and beach towel in Rome, and perfecting my water cycle lesson plan in Venice? Finally, the real question came to me. Am I crazy to sleep in the airport?

I wish I could say there was a community of a certain type of crazy I noticed during these wee hours of the night. I surely would head this Reddit group. But I realized these terrible flight times do not discriminate. The airport floors and benches welcome all ages, ethnicities, genders, and even social classes. I wonder if these people, too, have equivalent realizations of College educated. On the streets. Good work Madeline.

I look at the airport floor, my socks continuing to collect from dusty mirror now, and time stops.

Nothing is happening.

It's during these seven hours that the mirror reflects my taste for adventure coupled with my post-grad budget. This mirror is not glamorous, but I am okay with that.

I urge you to reflect during these moments of stopped time, whenever or wherever they might occur. Your situation might be telling you something. The dirty floor may have just been telling me I am broke, but I have found that the most growth happens when we push past our limits and experience something uncomfortable.

Though I wish I allowed my standards to include a hotel regardless of time or price, right now my life affords me a little sliver of crazy. Allow yourself to do the crazy. It's with these moments that you can experience so much life, pushing past comfort. It may not always be luxurious, but it is always worth it.

I am curious to find out the day I will finally book that hotel. If I were to bet on myself, I'd say never. Thus, I continue my tally. I wonder which airport will be next...