Let’s talk about freakin’ cantaloupe.
You know what I’m talking about. It’s the fruit equivalent of packing peanuts or elevator music. It is a space filler, that is its one and only purpose. It’s cheap, readily available, and nobody can tell when it’s not fresh because it always has the same texture; somehow simultaneously firm, mushy, and rubbery. It is the worst fruit. And yet it comprises 90% of all fruit cups and salads.
Especially in airports. I did three laps through the international terminal of O’Hare in search of fruit that might put off he inevitable consumption of the protein bar stockade in my backpack, and the only thing I could find was cantaloupe.
Did I mention I’m actually allergic to cantaloupe?
So I’m sitting at my gate, my throat itchy and my lips swollen from consuming the demon fruit, and I get the overwhelming urge to talk to someone. To reach out to another human being. The reality of what I have just signed myself up for is starting to sink in and I feel the need for reassurance. I see a nice looking group by the charging station and insert myself into their ranks on the premise of charging my tablet, which is actually already charged. Turns out there are three grandparents, three sets of parents (siblings) and eight children under twelve, all traveling together to Israel to see the religious sites. Turns out one among them is a rabbi. Eventually the subject of my pilgrimage comes up and the wife of the rabbi asks politely,
“So have you done any long term, hiking before?”
Chagrined, I reply, “Nothing like this. I’m taking the plunge, I guess.”
“And have you ever traveled overseas before?”
“No.”
Her eyebrows raise. “And you’re going alone?”
“Yeah…I guess it’s a really big, deep plunge.”
A few more of the young kids arrive from the food court and I surrender my seat. The first leg of my flight is eleven hours anyway, I need to stand. A proud grandfather, who asks me to call him g-pa (I stick to Ralph), asks if I know Spanish. I say yes, I know it pretty well. He informs me that three of the children sitting in front of me have spent their entire education in Spanish immersion and are completely fluent. Ralph somehow gets me to accidentally say in Spanish that I intend to eat a bowl of staples in Barcelona, and the fluent twelve year old laughs. I have clearly picked the wrong family for reassurance. These kids are way cooler than me.
My plunge into deep water is starting to feel more like a headfirst dive into a very shallow pool.
Names are exchanged and I learn that one of the little girls is named Brynn. My hand jumps to the ring I am keeping on my necklace and I think of my Bryn back in Washington. Maybe it’s a good sign.