December 16, 2017       ‘ . . . you expect romance like in the movies.’

         That is how my mind remembers the scene from Sleepless in Seattle when Becky and Annie are watching the movie “An Affair to Remember” with Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr. I pulled the script from the internet and it is different – but you know how people’s perceptions are.  Me, I re-write what I like and make it better.

ANNIE

Now those were the days when

people knew how to be in love.

BECKY

You’re a basket case.

ANNIE

They knew it. Time, distance,

nothing could separate them.

Because they knew. It was

was right. It was real.  It was . . .

BECKY

. . . movie.

That’s your problem. You don’t

want to be in love.  You want

to be in love in a movie.

Why this sudden remembrance of a little phrase from a movie from 1993.

Yesterday, Santa Claus, yes that is what I call my husband this time of year, and I were exiting a store where I, the elf, was helping him choose a Christmas gift for me from Santa.  It saves on exchanging due the wrong fit, the wrong color, the wrong fragrance.  You are thinking, there is no “surprise” element.  Hey, I have enough surprises daily without surprises in my gifts. But, Santa always has a few items he has picked out all by himself that are real surprises and usually “spot on” gifts.

         I think he is in a much jollier mood this year because he knows I need my “spirits lifted” due to the passing of my Mom in October.

         Upon exiting the store, we linked arms and laughed like we were young lovers having some romantic secret that we had just shared.  The sun on our smiling faces, he gave me the old “squeeze” and that sultry chuckle that indicated “hanky-panky” possibly later.  It reminded me of the most romantic moment in my life – let me tell you about it:

 flash back to when I was 21 and single

40 + years ago before Garmin,

Smart phones, and credit cards

         My boyfriend, now husband, at the time had flown to Bermuda with the guys for their yearly spring Golf weekend and when he left he asked if I would pick him up at Logan airport and gave me the flight number and time when he would be arriving.  We had a date for dinner at a special place in Boston on the way home.

         I had just finished getting dressed in my favorite dress, teal green wrap around with a petal hem and it came to me I didn’t really know how to get to Logan airport as my boyfriend always drove in those days.  I’d only flown once in my lifetime at that point [to my oldest brother’s wedding in Minnesota].  My brother, Ken, happened to be at the house – he was engaged or already married, but he was there to help Dad or something and I pulled him aside.

         “How do you get to Logan Airport?”  I whispered. 

My boyfriend was sort of a secret from my parents, actually everyone at this point, as it was a new romance.  I knew better than to trot him out for inspection at this stage of the relationship.

         “Why?” 

         “I promised a friend I would pick him up – he’s coming in from a golf outing.”  I answered.

         Ken absorbed that information with some curiosity,  but he didn’t ask and said,

“You take 495 South to 90 and you’ll see signs that say to Boston and then Logan Airport.” 

“How long will it take?”

“Give yourself an hour and a half.”

         He turned away to go about his business, but then swung back around.

         “You got money for tolls and parking at the airport?” He asked quietly.

         “Ah, yeah.”  I said mentally calculating how much money I had in my purse.

         I easily found my way to the airport, and parked my car in short-term parking.  I found the central core of the Airport, found the “arrivals” sign, and located his flight and his arriving gate.  Now, I can’t believe I was so “fearless” back then with no hesitation, me a little country girl from a little town that has no stop-light intersections.

         My boyfriend asked me to meet him at the bar just at the end of the arrival gates as he was familiar with the airport.  He was a world traveler – and me a simple country mouse of a gal. Logan Airport doesn’t look a bit like it did back then as they have revamped and redone it at least a dozen times over the decades.

         I stepped up and slide onto a leather swivel barstool at the end of a wraparound bar located in an open area of the airport. The bar was open on three sides so you could see travelers coming and going to their flights.

         A friendly bartender smiled at me and I ordered a scotch and water and paid for it with about half of the money I had with me.  The bar, half filled with men scrutinized me from my reflection in the large mirror behind the bar lined with an array of liquor bottles.

         After 45 minutes waiting with constant glancing at the arrival gate area, I soon wore a disappointed face. 

         The bartender approached me as I was still nursing  a half-full glass of melted ice cubes and said,

“The gent at the other end of the bar would like to buy you a drink?”

“No, I am waiting for someone.”  I answered and didn’t look up to see who the gent was.  I knew I turned a bit pink with embarrassment.

A few minutes later, the bartender asked,

“Another one?”

“No, he should have arrived by now, maybe some more ice?” 

The nice bartender came back with some ice and topped off my glass.  “Another gent, over there would like to buy you a drink?”

“No, no.”  I looked up. I know he could see my panic.

“How would I find out if his flight was cancelled or something?” I asked as I had only seen the arrival and departure sign near the baggage claim and I now sat in the bar.

“Just outside here, on the back side are arrivals and departures.  They update every few minutes.”  He said.

I slipped down off the stool and said, “Don’t take my drink, I’ll be right back.”  I quickly walked out of the bar and around to the signage and discovered his flight arrival time had changed.  I returned to the bar.

“So?”  The bartender asked as he was hovering near my drink polishing the bar.

“Another half hour.”

“Where is he coming in from?”

“Bermuda, a golf trip.”

“They can make up time.  I’ll tell the gents you are waiting on someone special and not bother you again.”  He poured a bit of water in my glass of ice cubes.  There was hardly a taste of scotch left, but I nursed it another half-hour.

I touched up my lipstick – using the bar mirror with a half dozen gents watching on and glanced at my watch again. I looked at the bar clock and checked my watch with it. 

I shifted on the bar stool and craned my neck to see down the gate concourse. I didn’t see him and then spun back on the stool and took a sip of my diluted drink.

Just then the bartender came over and asked,

“So, what does he look like?”  By then, he and every man at the bar wanted to know whom HE was that I was waiting for.

“Mustache, glasses  . . . handsome . . .” my voice trailed off.

The bartender was looking over my shoulder and said,

“This is him now I think . . .”

I turned and spotted him.  I slipped off the bar stool and rushed to meet him. He was wearing his navy wool blazer, tan pants, regimental striped tie and his tan raincoat tossed casually over his shoulder.  He ran up and grabbed me about the waist, and lifted me off my feet for a full 360-degree twirl and then kissed me in front of everyone.

In a sea of fellow travelers, no one paid much attention to us as they merely stepped aside on their way to boarding or baggage.

I affectionately call my most romantic moment “The twirl” - just like romance in the movies.