Waiting on line in the women’s restroom of Tocumen Airport in Panama City is the reminder I need of this globe’s diverse spectrum of feminine beauty and bodies. The faux eyelashed woman of color with the brazen red-tinted dark hair washing her ashy hands. The teenage Latina with stonewashed jeans that remind me of growing up in the 1980s in the U.S. The middle-aged woman unabashed about her gray roots and jet black ends, overseeing the whole operation of line order, consecutive stall taking, hand washing and paper towel distribution. The little girl with diamond studs gracing her ear lobes, probably looking at me and wondering why my skin is so freckled compared to the even olive shade of her own.
Between flights in this hot airport restroom, I have rejoined a larger frequency of human operations that rides higher than my immediate affluent lifestyle in San Francisco. While my professional work has positioned me to connect with communities different from my own – culturally, racially, socioeconomically — for close to 15 years, I move through the world personally and emotionally with folks largely living like me and from backgrounds like mine. Higher education was a given in our household and while finances were (are) always tight with my family of origin, we grew up with swimming lessons, time on sailboats, opportunities to ski in the winter and laze away in safe beach communities during the summer. We always had what we needed. Christmases weren’t plentiful but in all, I won the birth lottery and grew up with a lot of support from engaged parents (two of them), a reliance on high quality goods and education, and an expectation to excel professionally.
One of the many things I love about adventures and global travel is the discipline it demands to go within, and move through the world with who you are, how you judge moments and people, how you make decisions when circumstances call upon you to do so. In this restroom, none of those characteristics of my upbringing apply. I just need to stand in line like anyone else, accept the heat and humidity, take care of my own stuff (I’m traveling solo for the first part of this adventure) and get on with it. Beyond this restroom (since this is a momentary reflection and not the good stuff of my upcoming travel sabbatical), the meaty human stuff of me is what makes a great adventure full of memories characterized by discovery, community and solitude, not credentials earned or where I “summered.” Travel strips me down and it feels good and familiar to be back in the flyway.
