They say that airports have witnessed more sincere kisses than wedding halls. Three years ago, I kissed my beloved Bombay goodbye as I left for my four-year educational journey to Boston. Since then, I have flown back and forth several times, transitioning from Bombay’s muddled madness to Boston’s meticulous methods. The artist in me embraces the disorderly bustle of Bombay, while the economist in me appreciates the organized arrangement of Boston. The two cities are nothing alike, but they both have my heart.
Dreading my first trip to Boston, I set off for T-2 International Terminal, Bombay. I crossed the drop off lanes carefully, dodging the gridlock of cars that refused to abide by lane discipline. Flocks of families wept as they bid farewell to their loved ones. Their respective cars awaited their return only to worsen the traffic. I sped up a little every time I heard someone honk at me, dragging my carefully weighed 23 kg suitcases behind me. My ears buzzed with the cacophony of taxi drivers calling out to passengers. The turmoil kept me swift and speedy.
As I searched for the check-in counter, I couldn’t find a single sign with the word “Emirates”. Well, of course: the only way to find directions in Bombay was to ask someone. The airport personnel were gathered in a circle, chattering away. Drowning their voices were the constant announcements on the airport speakers. Hesitantly, I built up the courage to ask for directions. “I think it is straight ahead?” an attendant responded unassertive. I walked on, following intuition instead of instruction.
Finally, I found my way and joined the queue for the check-in counter. Just as it was my turn, a middle-aged woman cut in front of me, saying, “I am joining my husband, he was already in line.” Skeptical of her alibi, I reluctantly agreed to let her in. Everyone behind me glared and growled at this inconvenience. To top it all off, her bag was overweight, courtesy of the kilos worth of Indian snacks stuffed inside. I understood why she had cut me. There was something competitive that ran through our veins: a compulsive need to be first. I proceeded to show the officer my documents, a hurried and silent interaction.
23 hours later, I arrived at Boston Logan International Airport. As soon as the flight touched down, I unbuckled my seatbelt to find my cabin baggage. I was surprised to realize I was the only one doing so. I found my way back to my seat so that I didn’t draw any more attention than I already had. Calmly, silently and row-by-row, people moved towards the exit. Something about this rhythmic transit satisfied me.
As soon as I was off the aircraft, I picked up the pace. But, racing my fellow passengers to queue was pointless here; I couldn’t figure out which line to get into. I looked around, hoping for airport personnel to guide me, but there was no one in sight. Out of options, I looked up to read the signs: “US citizens”, “TSA pre” and “H-1B”. Which line to pick? Flustered, I followed young adults wearing Harvard and Northeastern hoodies, hoping they were students with the same visa status as me. Carefree and amenable, the crowd sorted itself into lines like clockwork. Thrilled by the test, I attempted to uphold the precision.
An oppressive silence filled the air. My phone buzzed, drawing undue attention once again. I was whispering into the phone, reassuring my mother I was safe, when someone pointed in the direction of a sign: “No mobile phones”. My face flushed with embarrassment. When I finally reached the immigration counter, I had my documents ready for inspection, expecting the same abrupt interaction as the one in Bombay. The officer greeted me warmly, “So, Wellesley is an all women’s college?” Taken aback by his interest, I answered mechanically, “Yes.” While processing my fingerprints we had a full-length conversation about the color of my nails. The exit, much like the rest of my experience at Boston Logan International airport, was a systematic dispersal. Clearly-labeled signs led me to the designated ride-sharing app pick up location. In a separate lane, cars moved nonchalantly, pausing tolerantly for pedestrians. I was fascinated by the diligent movements.
Now, Boston is just as dear to me and my beloved Bombay. I am as comfortable in the coordinated, courteous conduct in Boston as I am in the chaotic, competitive confusion in Bombay. Here, the economist in me proceeds with methodical clarity; there the artist in me explores with instinctive idiosyncrasy.