Thoughts In Flight
Flying still seems an impossibility, some violation of natural laws that a large metal object can hurdle through the air at unimaginable speeds. Though I love to travel, I do so with a mixture of awed amazement and trepidation. My muscles remain tense through flight and I instinctually grasp the armrest with a death defying grip during every brief encounter with turbulance.
Coming into Texas, billowing clouds engulfed our aircraft. From a distance they looked soft and inviting. Closer they towered and arched over us like walls of white, polished rock. If the sky were our river, the clouds created a formidable canyon. Flying through, the whole world turned white and foggy, and we dropped and dipped, and I clung to my armrest and wondered how the pilots could see, or if they simply navigated through momentary blindness.
I remember my dad telling a story of fog rolling in, blanketing the West Virginia hills one night when he was driving home from Washington D.C. When the windey road didn't clear and he continued to pass semi trucks trundling through, he slowed to a cautious speed and drove with the door open so that he could follow the double yellow lines. What serves as double yellow lines in air.
Our plane hits the Dallas runway at a too fast speed and our jovial pilot, who has been giving us regular updates about sights and arrival information, has to put the brakes on hard. Even though I'm thrown forward a bit due to the force, I feel instantly calmer, grounded as I was meant to be.
On the back of the bathroom door in Dallas someone has taped a Christian prayer to God. Pat Robertson's God I think. I am in the Lone Star state and realize that sometimes the WORST culture shock happens in country. On the train, a blonde flight attendant sits next to me. She is thin and not very tall, but makes up for it in accessories. Her shoes are black high heels, bordered with silver studs. She's wearing a wedding ring with a diamong bigger than my ring fingernail, and around her neck she's draped a silk red, white and blue statue of liberty scarf.
On the next flight I am inside the sunset. I am swimming in the swirl of an artist's pallet, aquamarine and bright orange.
Maybe I should close the window now. The lightning gods are fighting furiously right outside. I'm fascinated and am wondering why we aren't moving farther away. Remembering what they say about the attraction of lightning to metal. Outside is total darkness except for sporadic, jagged illumination. Is it possible to be struck down by one of those fiery spears.
I can already feel my mind wavering between Spanish and English. What is the best way to express myself. Will I find the right words. Racking my brain for conjugations y vocabulario. For a moment there at the airport I think my big bag is lost. The empty conveyor belt keeps going around still empty. Como se dice "I've lost my baggage" en Espanol. Perdon, no puedo encontrar... how the hell do you say baggage.
Luckily disaster is averted, my bag quickly found, and Marci is waiting for me outdoors with a big smile and a 'Friends World' sign. Just in time, as taxi/hotel wallahs descend. Her shirt says 'Pura Vida', a positive response to "how are you". She's been waiting since 6 for another boy whose plane was first diverted to Nicaragua and then Panama.
In the car, Marci lets me speak in English for a few minutes before interjecting, "Eva, puedes hablar Espanol". My mind struggles for a few moments, as if the puffy clouds from the sky remain lodged in my head. Suddenly it clears and the words appear like birds. I speak slowly at first, and then a little faster. "Muy bien," and tells me my family makes good coffee. Bueno.
In the hotel my room is right next to the bar. Someone is playing a guitar and several drunk male voices are singing loudly, not paying attention to tune, and laughing. The room is small, about four feet of space around two sides of the bed, just enough room for the door to open. It's just for the night. Buenas Noches Heredia, gracias a dios.
Coming into Texas, billowing clouds engulfed our aircraft. From a distance they looked soft and inviting. Closer they towered and arched over us like walls of white, polished rock. If the sky were our river, the clouds created a formidable canyon. Flying through, the whole world turned white and foggy, and we dropped and dipped, and I clung to my armrest and wondered how the pilots could see, or if they simply navigated through momentary blindness.
I remember my dad telling a story of fog rolling in, blanketing the West Virginia hills one night when he was driving home from Washington D.C. When the windey road didn't clear and he continued to pass semi trucks trundling through, he slowed to a cautious speed and drove with the door open so that he could follow the double yellow lines. What serves as double yellow lines in air.
Our plane hits the Dallas runway at a too fast speed and our jovial pilot, who has been giving us regular updates about sights and arrival information, has to put the brakes on hard. Even though I'm thrown forward a bit due to the force, I feel instantly calmer, grounded as I was meant to be.
On the back of the bathroom door in Dallas someone has taped a Christian prayer to God. Pat Robertson's God I think. I am in the Lone Star state and realize that sometimes the WORST culture shock happens in country. On the train, a blonde flight attendant sits next to me. She is thin and not very tall, but makes up for it in accessories. Her shoes are black high heels, bordered with silver studs. She's wearing a wedding ring with a diamong bigger than my ring fingernail, and around her neck she's draped a silk red, white and blue statue of liberty scarf.
On the next flight I am inside the sunset. I am swimming in the swirl of an artist's pallet, aquamarine and bright orange.
Maybe I should close the window now. The lightning gods are fighting furiously right outside. I'm fascinated and am wondering why we aren't moving farther away. Remembering what they say about the attraction of lightning to metal. Outside is total darkness except for sporadic, jagged illumination. Is it possible to be struck down by one of those fiery spears.
I can already feel my mind wavering between Spanish and English. What is the best way to express myself. Will I find the right words. Racking my brain for conjugations y vocabulario. For a moment there at the airport I think my big bag is lost. The empty conveyor belt keeps going around still empty. Como se dice "I've lost my baggage" en Espanol. Perdon, no puedo encontrar... how the hell do you say baggage.
Luckily disaster is averted, my bag quickly found, and Marci is waiting for me outdoors with a big smile and a 'Friends World' sign. Just in time, as taxi/hotel wallahs descend. Her shirt says 'Pura Vida', a positive response to "how are you". She's been waiting since 6 for another boy whose plane was first diverted to Nicaragua and then Panama.
In the car, Marci lets me speak in English for a few minutes before interjecting, "Eva, puedes hablar Espanol". My mind struggles for a few moments, as if the puffy clouds from the sky remain lodged in my head. Suddenly it clears and the words appear like birds. I speak slowly at first, and then a little faster. "Muy bien," and tells me my family makes good coffee. Bueno.
In the hotel my room is right next to the bar. Someone is playing a guitar and several drunk male voices are singing loudly, not paying attention to tune, and laughing. The room is small, about four feet of space around two sides of the bed, just enough room for the door to open. It's just for the night. Buenas Noches Heredia, gracias a dios.
posted by Eva Hathaway at 10:01 AM
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