to all the travelers:
"i do know something about wanderlust. the giddiness that sets in when the bags are loaded in the van, or the bus, or the car, and off we go; bumping through the 3am darkness of a third world country. driving through fog and sometimes rain, with the AC blasting a little too cold. trying not to roll off the seat with every hard corner, trying to sleep before the lines, the lights, the logistics of the airport.
hauling heavy suitcases, shouldering over-packed backpacks, or the occasional relief of a carry-on only trip. the annoyance and efficiency or sometimes inefficiency of removing your shoes, your belt, your clothes, your laptop. waiting to be passed through or searched or scanned or rescanned.
i know the comfort of standing on the moving sidewalk, or sometimes the panic of running, shuttling through glass and steel, crowds or empty corridors. waiting in uncomfortable chairs or lying on the floor, watching the clouds brighten in the light of dawn. watching the sun come up or go down over the tarmac. feeling that moment of stillness - always the same at every gate in any country.
i am at home in the anticipation of the walk from the gate; the tunnel to the seats in the craft. the craft. the craft. the craft! the strangers. the family. the lovers. the stewardesses; the cheery greeting, the forced eye contact, the stale air, the faltering path into the belly of it. the hoping for a window seat, and hopefully the free cocktails, the empty row.
and then that moment, we all know that moment. we're airborn, we're lifting, we're throttling through sky, we're raising, rising, looking down, banking, ascending, turning, correcting, yawning, ears popping and thrilling. it's thrilling. it's finally happening, the leaving, the going, the fleeing, the flying. we're flying. we're flying!
smooth or sometimes bumpy, exhausting, relaxing, productive, unconscious, sometimes glorious, sometimes grueling. well-acquainted with the exquisite boredom and impatient anticipation of a long flight. well acquainted with the terror of turbulence, the blessing of an interesting seatmate, the relief of a xanax somewhere over the pacific. cannot imagine living without the views. the views from above. the fields of clouds, and fields of crops. the structure of cities, the sprawl of suburbs, the mountains, the snaking rivers, the flash of lakes, the magnificent millions of marvels in moisture and light and shadow.
the whole world from a window seat.
there is no happiness like the happiness of descent, no moment i love more. we're here! we made it! the wheeling, the return, the jolt of the tires, the roar, the breaks, the wait for the doors. another aiport, another flight, or sometimes a baggage carousel, a car, a reunion, a taxi, a crowd, chaos, calm, near, far, foreign, domestic, home is not at the beginning or the end.
home is in the air, in the airport, in the coming and going. the bad coffee. the people watching. the hope and excitement of transit. home is in the journey."
written by me, somewhere over the gulf of mexico.
"i do know something about wanderlust. the giddiness that sets in when the bags are loaded in the van, or the bus, or the car, and off we go; bumping through the 3am darkness of a third world country. driving through fog and sometimes rain, with the AC blasting a little too cold. trying not to roll off the seat with every hard corner, trying to sleep before the lines, the lights, the logistics of the airport.
hauling heavy suitcases, shouldering over-packed backpacks, or the occasional relief of a carry-on only trip. the annoyance and efficiency or sometimes inefficiency of removing your shoes, your belt, your clothes, your laptop. waiting to be passed through or searched or scanned or rescanned.
i know the comfort of standing on the moving sidewalk, or sometimes the panic of running, shuttling through glass and steel, crowds or empty corridors. waiting in uncomfortable chairs or lying on the floor, watching the clouds brighten in the light of dawn. watching the sun come up or go down over the tarmac. feeling that moment of stillness - always the same at every gate in any country.
i am at home in the anticipation of the walk from the gate; the tunnel to the seats in the craft. the craft. the craft. the craft! the strangers. the family. the lovers. the stewardesses; the cheery greeting, the forced eye contact, the stale air, the faltering path into the belly of it. the hoping for a window seat, and hopefully the free cocktails, the empty row.
and then that moment, we all know that moment. we're airborn, we're lifting, we're throttling through sky, we're raising, rising, looking down, banking, ascending, turning, correcting, yawning, ears popping and thrilling. it's thrilling. it's finally happening, the leaving, the going, the fleeing, the flying. we're flying. we're flying!
smooth or sometimes bumpy, exhausting, relaxing, productive, unconscious, sometimes glorious, sometimes grueling. well-acquainted with the exquisite boredom and impatient anticipation of a long flight. well acquainted with the terror of turbulence, the blessing of an interesting seatmate, the relief of a xanax somewhere over the pacific. cannot imagine living without the views. the views from above. the fields of clouds, and fields of crops. the structure of cities, the sprawl of suburbs, the mountains, the snaking rivers, the flash of lakes, the magnificent millions of marvels in moisture and light and shadow.
the whole world from a window seat.
there is no happiness like the happiness of descent, no moment i love more. we're here! we made it! the wheeling, the return, the jolt of the tires, the roar, the breaks, the wait for the doors. another aiport, another flight, or sometimes a baggage carousel, a car, a reunion, a taxi, a crowd, chaos, calm, near, far, foreign, domestic, home is not at the beginning or the end.
home is in the air, in the airport, in the coming and going. the bad coffee. the people watching. the hope and excitement of transit. home is in the journey."
written by me, somewhere over the gulf of mexico.
