Travel Self vs. Real Self
Who we become whilst traveling and how, for some, it's vastly different than who we actually are.
Two things happened simultaneously the other weekend that got me thinking about our travel personas. I was on a train with a rare opportunity to catch up on some reading when I learned that I completely missed the cultural coining of the phrase “Airport Dad”. Apparently, the term first showed up on TikTok around 2021 as adult kids began documenting their dads maneuvering their way through airports.
It makes sense that I missed this trend given I’m not on TikTok. The platform scares me for some reason; a true sign I’m not of Gen Z but rather, what I call the Upper Millennials (mainly to avoid the term ‘older millennial’). The Urban Dictionary defines “Airport Dads” as those who “always arrive unnecessarily early to airports and who will put their family through hell in order to get on the flight with hours to spare.” Others expand the definition to include behaviors like weighing luggage for equal distribution, studying the route to the airport, insisting on handling all travel documents, even sanitizing seats. It’s apparently a trait, or collection of them, that goes beyond the airport alone, stretching into other facets of life. There are hundreds of millions of mentions and views of Airport Dads on social media and there have even been ad campaigns that have borrowed the term, leveraging the trend to push their travel gear (like cult brand Beis, below). Airport Dad is definitely a thing.
This dive into the existence of Airport Dads came right on the heels of a conversation among friends that centered on the travel personas of their husbands. I overheard two pals discussing their beloved’s sudden shift in behavior in airports. They were laughing, the kind with the occasional snort woven in, about how one of their husbands famously transforms from his normally present and helpful dad-self into something entirely different. On airport grounds, he seems to forget he even has a family and often just disappears, later to be found at a bar waiting for his flight to board as his wife struggles with the kids and bags. It sounded something like a security lobotomy where that caring, paternal part of the brain gets somehow scooped out on the stress-inducing trip through the security line.
This all left me contemplating my own airport behavior and persona. After some reflection, I concluded that I think you’d find I’m pretty much who I am on any given occasion. Bags are a little more organized than they’d otherwise be as I’d have attributed some time to packing. Other than that though, hair in disarray, my ducklings never in a row but rather, one on my shoulders and two in the Yoyo, and my well-mannered midwestern upbringing still in tact, save for the real airport asshole that sets me off. Even then though, “set off” means some under-breath mumbling and if it’s really bad, there’s maybe even some profanity woven in (not loud enough that my kids can hear though).
And then there’s my other half, always an anomaly, forever an enigma. Because both the Airport Dad phenomenon and the conversation around the sudden and shocking character shift centered on fathers and husbands in airports, I couldn’t help but compare my own forever travel partner. True to form, Gabriele is in his own camp with regard to the Airport Dad definition. He is a master of logistics but he operates on something even more rebellious than Italian time. That is to say, he insists on shoving all nine passports (four out of the five of us have dual citizenship, hence the high number) into the travel wallet I gifted him a decade ago. Perhaps a little Airport Mom of me? Gabri is ready at the check-in counter with luggage locks and is always ensuing miles are posted to our accounts. He knows our flight departure and arrival times, the details of any layovers and often, even the actual flight numbers for the whole itinerary … by heart! Beyond Airport Dad, it’s a little Rain Man of him if you ask me. But then, in complete incongruence with the idea of an Airport Dad, he has to be the last to board and is visibly unhappy if we are sat waiting as opposed to running through the airport, frantically cutting lines. I’ve attributed this behavior to a fear of wasted time and, for him, early to the airport equates to just that.
In some ways, Gabri’s travel persona is aligned with who he is on any given day — organized and yet, allergic to being on time, prepared but never early, and altogether unfazed by what anyone might think. He would rather the whole of the plane wait for him than sit waiting for anyone. Maybe what I’m describing is simply an “Airport Papà”, the Italian version of Airport Dad. It’s entirely possible given extreme differences in Italian versus American culture when it comes to time.
Gabri would be the first to help someone in need (kids or elderly in particular) because he has a kind heart. At the same time though, because he has no spacial awareness whatsoever, he takes out countless unsuspecting passersby with his gigantic backpack, like a colossal appendage reminiscent of the gigantic turtle shells you find in the Galapagos. And I, embarrassed and apologetic, am constantly caught in the crossfires of nasty looks and disdain. There’s nothing the man loathes more than a line and yet, he regularly creates them on planes, ass out into the aisle as he burrows through that massive backpack, unpacking in leisurely fashion as if no one’s waiting behind him. And as the flight attendant asks over the loudspeaker, “sir, can you please sit down so we can get moving” I shrink down in my seat and pretend there’s no relationship between us while Gabri puts no pep in his step.
Is it possible something happens to male brain chemistry in the airport? On more than one occasion, I’ve spoken to what a stellar dad Gabri is. Uber present and always helpful (unless it requires getting out of bed or foregoing sleep), he’s a dream dad and fellow child raiser. It’s one of his most exceptional qualities. And yet, something about the airport seems to intoxicate him with the need to relinquish responsibility to me and the kids. Without warning, he walks away on his phone in the opposite direction. On our most recent international flight, one woman looked at me with a mix of pity and horror as sleepless, crying Nala waged war against the Melatonin coursing through her veins, content only if I contorted myself into strange shapes in order to accommodate around eight minutes of her sleep. This well-meaning woman asked if I was alone with all three. I told her no and pointed to their Papà, clad with his eye-mask and ear plugs, belly full of wine and a gummy. Upon landing, he’ll complain about not having slept a minute and then take offense to my death stare.
Gabri will be mad at me for writing this, assuming it diminishes his excellence in fatherhood. So again, for the millionth time, I’d like to reiterate that he’s a fantastic father who’s traveled alone, internationally, with our two boys and they made it to and fro Italia seamlessly, without him having to collect anyone from the Lost & Found. Or at least that’s the version of the story they’re telling me. So he’s up to the challenge and entirely capable but that just makes it all the more agitating. In my presence, the travel persona takes over and he takes off.
And so, I’ve concluded that there are those of us who are who we are no matter where we are. And then there are those of us who, when breathing that germ-laden airport air, transform into Airport Dad-like superheroes, absentee lunatics, or a unique combination of the two. I’ve been blessed with that later. You?
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