Dec 01 2009
Homecoming silence
The flight landed exactly an hour later than scheduled. The airport was humming with the first sounds of that unwanted somnolence that fills the gap between the late night and early morning flights. My fellow travel companions and I were on the other side of the divide — the select cast of late arrivals. Even the frantic hailing that normally beckons from tiny taxi boxes as one exits customs was absorbed into the general airport sopor. Nobody was supposed to be waiting, so it was just a question of picking the most unassuming box (or with the shortest waiting time) and paying for the ride home. It was no longer raining in Buenos Aires, I was told, but that to me was a dynamic reference to a past I never had to deal with. I came from sunny beaches and warm summer weather, and in that slice of bliss the rain is simply a musical interlude that enhances the general piece, like Thaïs meditation.
My driver was a tall, athletic and handsome man in his early thirties. He was polite in that simple way in which some people can be polite at 3.00 am in the morning, commenting on the weather and his ruined weekend plans, and sincerely concerned over the repeated postponements that his Christmas Party had undergone on account of the lousy weather on both sides of the Río de la Plata in the past few weeks.
Taking the highway home so late in the foggy night was delightful, as the risk of traffic jams was clearly reduced to nil in the early hours of a Monday. I was home in a third of the time I would have needed during the day. I dropped my bag on the floor beside me and started a quick negotiation with myself for fewer hours of sleep in exchange of a goodnight email to her.
The house was silent, my dog having gone to spend time with helpful family members. The night brought a strange mix of company and solitude when I crossed the doorway earlier, as if there was actually someone present when nobody was actually there. I sighed as my fingers started a short dance on the computer keyboard.
Who knows? Maybe silence is a companion with a presence of its own, if we want to listen.
