Chrono-Adventures: Journeying Through Time in an Airport Terminal

After a busy yet wonderful festive season, travel was starting to slow down. I was finished — with one exception: I never have sufficient time with my grandchildren, Nova and Luca. Nonetheless, I was momentarily fulfilled and prepared to head home.

The airline terminal was crowded with fatigued passengers. Navigating through security, I reached my designated gate. To my astonishment, I found that there were a few unoccupied seats. I chose a seat beside a woman in her twenties.

She turned to me with a smile; we exchanged casual airport banter. I discovered she was en route to visit family on Staten Island.

Surprised, I remarked: “I lived on Staten Island for quite some time.”

“Really?” she replied.

At that moment, a stylish woman of a certain age took a seat on the other side of the young woman. Indicating toward me, the young woman said, “Gram, my friend here is from Staten Island as well.” (Limited friendships often develop in an airport.)

Gram and I exchanged glances. We shared more casual airport exchanges. I was taken aback to find we had mutual acquaintances. That’s when the trivial exchanges shifted into something significant. I introduced myself to Gram, and she revealed that her name was Georgette.

It was then that I heard the crackle from the loudspeaker, which could only signify our flight to New York was postponed. Surprisingly, I was not in a fluster.

Georgette was frustrated. “Not again,” she lamented. She explained that she had missed her connection, which is how she found herself on this flight. The granddaughter introduced herself as Lilly. We prepared for the long wait.

“Celia, where did you attend high school?” Georgette inquired.

I told her. Her jaw dropped.

“So did I,” she exclaimed, astonished.

“When?” I asked.

It was now my turn to gaze at Georgette, bewildered. The sounds of the airport seemed to fade away. Georgette and I locked eyes for the second time. There was a moment of vague recognition.

“Cookie?” she stuttered.

“Gigi?”

Her granddaughter looked at us, shocked. “You two know each other?”

Did we ever! We’d met at the small all-girls Catholic high school we both attended on Staten Island. In detention. We were both punished for the crime of rolling our uniform skirts above the knees. And that was just the start of our escapades and friendship. Lilly nestled in closer, anticipating something entertaining. She was not disappointed. Our “remember when’s“ could have been straight from “Laverne & Shirley” — or perhaps “Mean Girls.”

“Why did they call you Cookie?” Gigi asked.

“Celia was too Italian and dull. I desired excitement,” I explained. I still do, to a lesser degree. “My dad hung up on many prospective boyfriends because they inquired about Cookie.”

“Same here!” Gigi said. “Not the Italian part. But who wanted to be called Georgette?”

Lilly added. “My name is Lillian. I should come up with a fancier nickname — lilies are for funerals.”

“Lilly is perfectly acceptable,” Georgette reassured her granddaughter. “Celia, do you remember when we nearly got caught smoking Hit Parade cigarettes in the convent basement?”

I erupted in laughter. “Yes, we smelled smoke. Mother Perpetua emerged from the shadows — smoking! Remember she made that gesture across her mouth — like, zip it,” I remarked. We chuckled at the reminiscence. “I had Mother Perpetua for Latin. Latin was not my strong suit — I barely passed. I wonder if she passed me because of our secret. Speaking of scents, do you recall the lingering aroma of candles and incense? Do you think it was to mask their smoking?”

Gigi nodded in agreement. “Who was that boy you had a crush on?” she asked.

“Which one?”

“The one your dad didn’t approve of!” Gigi added, as if that would narrow it down.

“Dad disapproved of nearly all the guys I brought home,” I mentioned. “They were all Elvis look-alikes. Leather Jackets, slicked-back hair. If they owned a motorcycle, I fell in love,” I recalled.

“I went to prom with the captain of the boys’ school football team. I snatched him from his snobby girlfriend — pure mean girl behavior,” Gigi reminisced.

“Remember when we would meet the high school guys around the corner from their school?” I asked. “We got away with it for about six months. Somehow word leaked out. Mother Edwards came around the corner and rounded us up.”

Folks, if you’ve never seen an enraged nun in full habit charging toward you, consider yourself fortunate.

Gigi and I found ourselves back in detention with a few other girls. Guess who was conspicuously absent? The snobby ex-girlfriend of the football team captain.

“What made you leave the school in your junior year?” Gigi queried.

“Fate and Dad,” I elaborated. “During study hall, Mother Josepha came around and checked our pencil cases. She discovered cigarettes in mine. Dad was summoned to school. Instead of punishing me, he had a conversation with the principal. Dad claimed my rights were violated,” I reminisced.

Our flight was being called. While lining up for our seating assignments, Gigi and I quickly exchanged a few more words. I learned she didn’t pursue acting; however, she taught music and drama at a high school in California.

I discovered she learned that I became a nurse, not a doctor. We traded phone numbers and vowed to stay in touch. But you know how that usually ends! The last I saw of Gigi and Lilly were the backs of their heads.

Last week, I received a text.

“Hey Cookie.”

The greeting launched me back to high school: the nuns, candles, incense — and those long-forgotten escapades with Gigi.