Travel Scribblings (part one)
My mother points me in the right direction, and then leaves. I feel the urge to turn around and run after her. For one wild moment, my heart screams, "I can't do this!" and I almost burst into tears.
But I don't.
I have always loved the sky. My soul drinks it in, literally, it seems. It quenches a thirst of mine...and somehow still awakens a longing. I remember this as I gaze out waiting to board, and decide today that I will embrace the sky.
...
The flight is four hours long. It is not the longest flight I've ever taken, nor the shortest. It is the length of a typical shift as a sales associate--short enough to rejoice when it appears on the schedule, long enough to drag when you are actually there.
I watch other passengers board after me. I was lucky enough to have a carry-on, which landed me a spot in boarding zone 1, right after the military personnel and families with children under two. I have the window seat, which I requested, but now I am squished in my one-by-two foot square and I pray I am not sitting next to someone obnoxious. There are children on this flight, lots of children. "Please, God, someone older, not young and not disinterested."
A ten-year-old sits next to me, and his Spanish-speaking father claims the aisle seat. Things could be worse. I put in headphones and turn up the music loud to drown out the sound of the plane. Take-off is the biggest hurtle. I feign sleep in an effort to mentally remove myself as far from the situation as possible. The plane rattles forward, pushes me back in my seat, and lifts. It gets better every time I do it.
I coach myself into some semblance of relaxation, start counting the hours. The pilot suggested we put the window shades down to cool the plane off before takeoff; now, the boy next to me leans over to see the view.
"You wanna see?" I ask, removing one earbud. He nods, and I lift the shade. We both gaze. Clouds billow up and I wrestle to take in the majesty of it. They are real, physical mounds of water vapor piling up a mile high. I could touch them. There are minuscule rainbows where the window glass has warped. The Midwest is a patchwork of cornfields beneath us. My heart lifts a little.
...
I know we have reached the West when I see mountains. Here, the land is not a patchwork; it is a sprawl. "Creation yawns in front of me," one of my favorite songwriters once said of Arizona. I don't know where we are, but it's doing the same thing. I want to be down there.
Meanwhile, the man in front of me retches into a bag. I turn up the music, and wish sleep would come.
It doesn't.
...
We are an hour away from landing when I remember I had a task for this flight. I pull out headphones and try to stretch out my legs, try to invite my whirling mind into rest. If nothing else, the experience inspires. I ignore my single-item to-do list, and tap out travel notes instead. My legs quickly bend back under me. Rest does not come naturally.
...
My ears begin to pop and the landscape begins to change. It's desert now, and we are close. I crane a bit to see, and suddenly remember I will glimpse the ocean.
Forty more minutes.
I have needed a restroom for the last two hours, but the boy and his father slumbered on. Ten minutes before we begin our descent, the boy wakes and stands up. I take advantage of the opportunity.
For the first time I am conscious that I sweat. I check my appearance in the mirror, smile at myself, and it hits me:
I'm almost done. I did it. Alone, with God.
I'm my own woman.
I return to my seat and break out crackers to celebrate. For the first time, I am hungry.
...
The boy returns. His father has switched places with his mother, and she and the boy converse in half-English, half-Spanish, something about Disneyland. He's wide awake now, ready for adventure. Everyone seems to stir. Conversations pick up speed and volume. The pilot's voice crackles over the speakers announcing clear skies in San Diego. Seat 31B wins 5,000 free miles and we all applaud. The boy and his brother play rock-paper-scissors across the aisle. I grin a bit. There is something mildly electric about arriving, and everybody's got it.
...
My ears ache all the way into my shoulder, but as I stare out the window I see it--the ocean. Everything still looks small, and as I get older, I'm realizing--that's because it is. I take up a one-by-two-foot square, and I am minuscule in the face of all this. And still I am held in the palm of God's hand.
We touch down and there is more applause.
But I don't.
I have always loved the sky. My soul drinks it in, literally, it seems. It quenches a thirst of mine...and somehow still awakens a longing. I remember this as I gaze out waiting to board, and decide today that I will embrace the sky.
...
The flight is four hours long. It is not the longest flight I've ever taken, nor the shortest. It is the length of a typical shift as a sales associate--short enough to rejoice when it appears on the schedule, long enough to drag when you are actually there.
I watch other passengers board after me. I was lucky enough to have a carry-on, which landed me a spot in boarding zone 1, right after the military personnel and families with children under two. I have the window seat, which I requested, but now I am squished in my one-by-two foot square and I pray I am not sitting next to someone obnoxious. There are children on this flight, lots of children. "Please, God, someone older, not young and not disinterested."
A ten-year-old sits next to me, and his Spanish-speaking father claims the aisle seat. Things could be worse. I put in headphones and turn up the music loud to drown out the sound of the plane. Take-off is the biggest hurtle. I feign sleep in an effort to mentally remove myself as far from the situation as possible. The plane rattles forward, pushes me back in my seat, and lifts. It gets better every time I do it.
I coach myself into some semblance of relaxation, start counting the hours. The pilot suggested we put the window shades down to cool the plane off before takeoff; now, the boy next to me leans over to see the view.
"You wanna see?" I ask, removing one earbud. He nods, and I lift the shade. We both gaze. Clouds billow up and I wrestle to take in the majesty of it. They are real, physical mounds of water vapor piling up a mile high. I could touch them. There are minuscule rainbows where the window glass has warped. The Midwest is a patchwork of cornfields beneath us. My heart lifts a little.
...
I know we have reached the West when I see mountains. Here, the land is not a patchwork; it is a sprawl. "Creation yawns in front of me," one of my favorite songwriters once said of Arizona. I don't know where we are, but it's doing the same thing. I want to be down there.
Meanwhile, the man in front of me retches into a bag. I turn up the music, and wish sleep would come.
It doesn't.
...
We are an hour away from landing when I remember I had a task for this flight. I pull out headphones and try to stretch out my legs, try to invite my whirling mind into rest. If nothing else, the experience inspires. I ignore my single-item to-do list, and tap out travel notes instead. My legs quickly bend back under me. Rest does not come naturally.
...
My ears begin to pop and the landscape begins to change. It's desert now, and we are close. I crane a bit to see, and suddenly remember I will glimpse the ocean.
Forty more minutes.
I have needed a restroom for the last two hours, but the boy and his father slumbered on. Ten minutes before we begin our descent, the boy wakes and stands up. I take advantage of the opportunity.
For the first time I am conscious that I sweat. I check my appearance in the mirror, smile at myself, and it hits me:
I'm almost done. I did it. Alone, with God.
I'm my own woman.
I return to my seat and break out crackers to celebrate. For the first time, I am hungry.
...
The boy returns. His father has switched places with his mother, and she and the boy converse in half-English, half-Spanish, something about Disneyland. He's wide awake now, ready for adventure. Everyone seems to stir. Conversations pick up speed and volume. The pilot's voice crackles over the speakers announcing clear skies in San Diego. Seat 31B wins 5,000 free miles and we all applaud. The boy and his brother play rock-paper-scissors across the aisle. I grin a bit. There is something mildly electric about arriving, and everybody's got it.
...
My ears ache all the way into my shoulder, but as I stare out the window I see it--the ocean. Everything still looks small, and as I get older, I'm realizing--that's because it is. I take up a one-by-two-foot square, and I am minuscule in the face of all this. And still I am held in the palm of God's hand.
We touch down and there is more applause.
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