Amish In The Airport, Failed Card Cheats, And My Imaginary Mail-Order Bride

Not long ago, I made an airport run to pick-up Paloma. As much as I loathe flying, I love airports.

Part of the allure of airports to me is the sense of possibility. One minute you’re here and, in a given amount of time, you can be somewhere else – possibly somewhere far, far away. It’s why I used to always keep my passport on hand.

However, it is the sheer human circus and the kinetic energy contained at airports which is also very appealing. This was immediately apparent as I sat near the baggage claim, trying to discern the difference, if any, between the flight designation “landed” and “arrived.” (although, it would seem impossible, as well as undesirable, to land before arriving).

A small group, seemingly a family, passed my position. They appeared to be Amish.

I mean, based on what I’d seen in the movie Witness, they certainly fit the description. The women wore simple, ankle-length frocks and bonnets. The lone man, an older fellow, was sporting suspenders, a straw hat and wore his facial hair in the style of a beard sans moustache. He certainly looked like a Jedidiah or Ezekiel.

Of course, when I think of the Amish, I think of churning butter, pies, and raising the occasional barn. I do not think air travel.

Something else that caught my attention was the rather uncomfortable-looking footwear I repeatedly saw rather stylish women wearing. Snowshoes could be all the rage for all I know (although, I’d like to think I’d notice), but these women were wearing what I would describe as wooden shoes.

Wooden shoes? Is this something that the Dutch are behind? Do they hate Americans because we are free and, to retaliate, have chosen to dupe women into wearing ill-fitting footwear, leading them to be irritable and, thus, creating friction between the sexes and undermining our way of life?

My observations were leaving me with far more questions than insights.

Suddenly, a dodgy, little fellow sat down next to me. His twitchy demeanor, bushy moustache, and shifty eyes made me think that he would cheat at cards (and not well, at that). He quickly struck up a conversation that I really didn’t want to have, finally inquiring as to whether I was waiting for someone.

“My mail-order bride is arriving,” I told him.

“Mail-order bride?” The dodgy, unsuccessful card cheat had the nifty habit of repeating, as a question, almost everything I said. Perhaps he was a failed Jeopardy contestant.

“Yeah. She’s coming here from Macadamia.”

“Macadamia?”

“You’ve heard of Macadamian nuts?”

“Yeah.”

“Her homeland is where 98% of all Macadamian nuts are grown,” I said.

“Aren’t Macadamian nuts from Hawaii?”

“Those are Hawaiian Macadamian nuts. Big difference.”

“Have you ever met her?” my new friend asked.

“Who?”

“Your mail-order bride?”

“Paloma? No. We’ve exchanged a lot of e-mails, though, and I know she likes butter.”

“Butter?” He furrowed his brow. “Ever seen her picture?”

“No.”

His expression grew more quizzical. “Well, how will you know her?”

“She’ll be wearing the native, ceremonial headdress of her country.”

Paloma arrived and we greeted each other with a hug. We walked off, holding hands, quite possibly leaving the failed card cheat under the impression that somewhere there is a distant land called Macadamia whose women like butter and a baseball cap with a cartoon monkey is considered ornate head ware.

Drive-By Truckers – Shut Up And Get On The Plane
from Southern Rock Opera

Nanci Griffith – Outbound Plane
from The MCA Years: A Retrospective

Peter, Paul And Mary – Leaving On A Jet Plane
from The Best of Peter, Paul and Mary: Ten Years Together

M.I.A. – Paper Planes
from Kala

Damn You, Christopher Cross And Your Siren Song Glamorizing An Outlaw Way Of Life And Stirring Up Feelings Of Wanderlust

As I made my way to work the other morning, one of the 20,000 songs on my iPod randomly popped up and, as it played, it prompted an epiphany. The revelation was spurred by the gentle strains of erstwhile yacht rocker and flamingo enthusiast Christopher Cross – it surprised the hell out of me.

He was declaring his intention to ride like the wind (with some help from Michael McDonald).

I was twelve when I first heard this musical mission statement and it was in my seventh grade homeroom class. Our teacher, Mrs. Wilson, was a willowy blonde with a megawatt smile (she could have stepped out of a Beach Boys’ song) who would let us play albums every Friday afternoon. Christopher Cross was her choice.

Outside, it was raining – a dreary backdrop to compliment the ennui of our small town in the rural Midwest. Inside, Christopher Cross was a renegade troubadour, boasting how he “always spoke [his] mind with a gun in [his] hand” as he fled for the border of Mexico.

Of course, some time later when I saw this portly desperado on Solid Gold it was obvious that he was more likely to speak his mind with a ham sandwich in his hand and – if he was fleeing anywhere – it would probably be to a buffet and a heaping plate of everything smothered in gravy.

It mattered not; his imagery had triggered something in me. I, too, wanted to ride like the wind, far beyond the bowling alley on the far outskirts of our town, beyond which was the rest of the world.

I’m not sure if Christopher Cross is completely responsible, but he certainly helped me to tap into the inner nomad I hadn’t known existed. And, after some consideration, for whatever part he played, perhaps I owe him a thank you. Without him and his desire to ride like the wind, there’s a lot of the world I might have never felt compelled to see.

Christopher Cross – Ride Like The Wind
Nearly twenty years after this song was a hit, several friends and I were playing pool at a bar where we were regulars. There was the consumption of alcohol and one friend opted to select Ride Like The Wind on the jukebox. As it played, a college kid came up to us, pointing back to a friend at the bar, he informed us that “this song is by my friend’s dad.” Yes, it was Cross’ son. Nice kid, but he couldn’t explain the flamingos that adored all of his dad’s album covers.

Christopher Cross – Sailing
The one-two punch of Ride Like The Wind and Sailing had me hooked and I, like some five million other people, had a copy of Cross’ debut album. So wispy it’s barely there, I still get “lost in the reverie” whenever I hear this song. The man obviously was looking to escape to somewhere, but, as opposed to the former song, on Sailing, Cross was in no hurry to get there.

Christopher Cross – All Right
Cross took three years between his debut and follow-up album – a ridiculously long period at the time. Not only did the rest of the world move on, but I made the quantum leap from twelve to fifteen which is twenty-one years in dog years and during that time I, like the rest of world, came to he startling realization that flamingos and rock and roll don’t mix. Twenty-five years later, I find All Right to be pleasant enough.

Christopher Cross – No Time For Talk
To satisfy my OCDish need to post a quartet of songs, I needed one more. Despite the involvement of Burt Bacharach, I wasn’t feeling Arthur’s Theme and I fear someone would knock at my door and demand my testicles if I opted for the steaming pile of mawkishness that is Think Of Laura (at least I could tolerate the former). Like All Right, which also was on his follow-up, No Time For Talk is pleasant enough.