Connections

BC left this afternoon at 12:40 from Incheon International Airport, and Korea was sad to see her go. How many people come here with a rudimentary knowledge of the Korean alphabet, highlighted guide book passages and a mental list of Korea's special products and handicrafts? Not to mention a scarily thorough recall of obscure hk in seoul blog entries dating back months and months.

After she passed through the ticketed-passengers-only gate, I watched her walk away, smiling at the thought that a pair of teddy bear socks with fluorescent green trim were hidden under her blue Adidas sneakers. When I couldn't see her anymore, I slowly made my way to the first floor, where the buses back to Seoul arrive. I had plenty of time before I had to get to work, and I briefly thought about sticking around the airport and doing some work there, as opposed to heading to a coffee shop in the city.

I actually sat down on a bench, but instead of pulling out some material to edit, I sat looking at the wide, gleaming expanses of black and white speckled tile and the tastefully unobtrusive lighting. Incheon airport is fairly new; it looks shiny and clean and, in the midday lack of arrivals, vast and empty.

In the intro to Love Actually, Hugh Grant voiceovers that whenever he feels down about the state of the world, he thinks of the arrivals gate at Heathrow, with the hordes of people meeting loved ones, and remembers that love, love, love is what makes the world go round. And that there's a great huge supply out there, as symbolized by the greeting of the arriving passengers.

True nuff. But today, sitting in that wide, airy, cavernous airport, I thought of how hopelessly sad airports are. The places where connections are broken and friends take leave, sometimes never to meet again. This isn't the case with BC, of course -- after 10 years of flaring nostrils, how to find the Sasquatch, and countless discussions of whether Russell Crowe or Guy Pearce is hotter, we're better friends than we were in college, even if we have never lived in the same city since. But for others? KB, who's already gone; Maiko, who leaves Korea in May; Clif, who leaves around the same time as Maiko; Etsuko, who will still be here when I leave in August -- will we be better friends in 10 years? Will we be friends? Will we even be in touch?

The emptiness of the terminal today seemed only to emphasize the emptiness of life, and the ways in which we so frantically try to fill it. Work, hobbies, shopping, reading, partying, friends, family -- whatever your poison is, baby. I don't mean to take away from any of those things. Just to say that in that airport today, these things all seemed like efforts to avoid the fundamental loneliness of existence.

To me, it seems that the most important thing in life is connecting -- whether it's with your good friend of 10 years, or the checkout clerk, or the dog you adopt. The only thing that means anything. But those connections, with very few exceptions, are so brief, so ephemeral, that even in their making, they evoke an inevitable sadness. For in the end, whether it's to go back to your own country or your own apartment, don't we all walk off in our separate directions, alone?

The Buddhists say that desire is the cause of all suffering, and that to reach enlightenment, you have to let go of all attachments. It certainly seems that way to me. But at this point, in my life at least, attachment to people, connections with people, seems like the only real reason to live. So, we keep trying, I guess. Connect and then disconnect, connect and then disconnect. I'm thinking here of KB, but also of all my friends here, with whom I've enjoyed countless hours of Korean life, and of course BC, who played Answer Girl to my Query Girl. She's got some wise answers, that BC.

I'm also thinking of John. It is strange to think that a year after breaking up with my ex, KB suddenly awakened me to the absence of intimacy in my life. I have superstitious streak; I enjoy thinking of things as fate even as I say practically, "Ah, it's all just a coincedence." What's amazing to me is that even after a year of feeling terrible about splitting up with John, I realized afresh this month what an incredibly courageous human being he is. His life has featured the breaking of connections so often it would be funny if it weren't so terribly sad. But even after all that, he wasn't afraid to reach out and try to connect again with me.

No, you know, that's not even right. He did it even though he was afraid. With that kind of example set before me, what else can I do except to connect again, and again, and again? Even with the knowledge that the connections end?