The author picks up some of "daddy's medicine" at the duty free in Pearson International airport, Toronto.

I’ve been traveling for business a lot. There are people that travel for business a hell of a lot more than me and I’ve gotten a chance to know their world. It’s a world of rituals, of airports, cars and hotels, of strange conference rooms and offices, of packing, unpacking and packing again, a furtive world in which you’re always seeking shelter in warm showers, comfortable chairs, cups of coffee or hot meals at clean restaurants.

I was seeking just that at an airport lounge in Indianapolis one evening while waiting for my fight home. Not a fussy customer, I asked the hostess if I could just park my ass in one of the seats at the crowded bar. I was tired and satisfied as I settled in and eager to get home. I’m a shot and a beer drinker so I asked for a Bass ale and… do you have Jameson back there? Why, yes, you do.

Suddenly a guy down the bar pipes up. “Somebody’s drinking Irish? Never let a man drink Irish alone! I’ll have one, too, please.”

The gentleman was exactly like me, a business traveler waiting for a flight home on a Friday and killing time in a pleasant glow, but I wondered if he was drunk and if I was in for an obnoxious conversation. Like so many at airports, I didn’t mind having a chat but I wasn’t looking to bond with anyone, especially not someone whose sense of proportion had been knocked out by a few too many chardonnays. As a couple people left the bar and a few more took their places, worried looks passed among us – was this fellow going to burden us?

I don’t remember what was said next but it was friendly. The fellow had indeed tipped a few but wasn’t pushing himself on anyone. He offered to share his paper. Several of us cautiously took him up on it. More talk – friendly, not too involved; we talked about movies if I remember correctly. We asked the bartender to switch the television to ESPN. I had a fantastic grilled chicken and vegetables. Grey clouds swept the horizon above the tarmac and small side conversations broke out about where you were going, what for, if you’d ever been there. None of the women got hit on. Everybody agreed the economy was crap but nobody argued politics. The company at the bar relaxed and a collegial atmosphere ensued. Eventually, the originator of this, my fellow whiskey drinker, had to go catch his flight. He left, and I had another beer.

As I said, I haven’t spent as much time in airports as other people but even so I am starting to think I’m seeing the same faces over and over. I’m usually an easy passenger – all I need to bear anything is something to read and a notebook for the occasional inspiration. Even so, there are times when it’s nice to put down your novel and have a talk with someone going your way. You learn about his industry, he learns about yours. You trade quips on places you both know or compare places you don’t. At the same time, people value their space. There’s an agreement that’s not violated – we’re going to be together for the next two, five, nine hours, and we might trade business cards, but that doesn’t mean we’re going to start trading greetings when our kids’ have birthdays. I guess there’s degrees of familiarity among business travelers, and most of them are cognizant of this and know when to back off. On this occasion in Indianapolis it was nice to see an honest human connection, a genuine interest in each other’s well being, without any entanglements, without the need to resort to our usual defenses against over-familiarity.

As I was going to my gate I caught Irish coming the other way. “Flight delayed by the rain over Minneapolis! Can you believe it?”

“Sorry to hear it. So where you going?”

“Back to the bar for more Jameson!”

“Hey, man,” I said, touching hands with him, “if my flight is delayed I’ll meet you there.”

It wasn’t. I didn’t.

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