Archive: Out of Town

San Francisco International Airport, Gate 28:

I am waiting to board my flight in a quilted vinyl seat facing the tarmac. Distant runway lights shimmer in the distance, obscured by finger-printed glass and those fold-up walkways. Caravans of luggage trundle down below. I wonder if I’ll see any of those guys with the light sticks who guide arriving planes. A light bulb over my head flickers irregularly. The stark fluorescence casts sterile light on an already subdued troupe of travelers.

We’re a motley crew, this red-eye bunch. With many rows of vinyl seats between two gates, we’ve spread out strategically so that each person has at least three seats to himself. Two young families with toddlers and babies play in the pod of gates. The toddlers admire the planes and while other little ones fuss. People shift uncomfortably, silently hoping that they don’t share a cabin with the children. There’s really nothing anyone can do if it’s the case. We all know we’re in the airport for the same reason and a good night’s sleep is a characteristic of an ideal scenario. We’re all going to board a plane, receive a blanket and pillow of doubtful origin, and hope for a decent amount of rest in what is inevitably a restless situation. Perhaps, like me, the people in this gate did not savor the idea of leaving the city the next morning, only to arrive at home about eight hours later. At least this way, uncomfortable seats and cramped quarters notwithstanding, I have the prospect of a good lunch and a relaxing afternoon and evening at home. The weekend will be only slightly shorter.

I look around. I’m not the only one who has dressed for the occasion, sporting comfy layers. It is evident that some unfortunate ones have come straight from their workplaces and their business casual attire is bound for a night of obtaining new wrinkles. I yawn. It’s a good sign that I’ll manage to rest during this flight, despite my middle seat placement.

I’m almost home.

On Friday, JG and I found ourselves on the top of the stairs of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, the ones made famous by Rocky and his gray sweatsuit. No, we didn’t run all the way up the stairs; we accidentally drove across them. In a car.

It all started out very innocently with a trip to the museum. I had never been there, so JG was humoring me and two of his friends came along for the ride. We followed signs for the parking lot, winding around and around the building at what I thought was a curiously high altitude. “I feel like we’re driving on top of the museum,” I commented, and of course, the rest of the car just laughed at me. RA was worrying again, as always. Then, the scenery opened up to reveal the stairs falling down to the right and columns of the museum’s façade rising up on the left. We were on top of the stairs, staring down at the Benjamin Franklin Parkway. What in the world?

The friend in the driver’s seat paused as we reached the center of the patio and said jokingly, “Do you want to take a picture?” We yelled to get off the steps and we zoomed into a less visible side parking lot. As the car pulled into place, the ridiculousness of the whole thing settled in. We were on the steps! If Rocky had been there, we could have run him over. We might even be in people’s pictures of the museum. Crazy.

JG would later describe the episode as the highlight of his weekend. At least the trip to the museum (that I loved, by the way) was worth that much, I guess.

I’m taking the afternoon and tomorrow off! We’re going to Philly with friends! Yes! Oh, and meanwhile, JG and I are chaperoning a pack of kids.

I shouldn’t complain. The trip is almost free for us, not including the minor task of accompanying 45 high school students to participate in their Model United Nations fest. We’re all staying in the same hotel where the kids do their UN thing (compromise, treaties, resolution, etc.) so I’m told that this chaperoning gig is really more like checking off names on a list than babysitting. According to the faculty advisor, the kids are the “nerdy, well-behaved ones”, so hopefully, they’ll snap to attention if I ask them to do something. Being an authority figure for these students makes me uneasy. I’m not a teacher and, more importantly, over half of them are bound to be at least a head taller than I am. Much to my chagrin, this will be a situation where respectful students will call me Mrs. Married Last Name and I need to make a conscious effort not to wince every time that happens. I am just not used to that yet.

Between the art museum and the orchestra (yay!), the plan this weekend includes a lot of reading. As of right now, the reading resolution is completely unrealistic thanks to my current book that has me in a headlock. I can’t fail in the first month! It’s a matter of pride right now; I have to at least get through June. I’m going to finish my book and get at least halfway through the other one in my bag, darn it.

Regardless of students, married last names and sub-Arctic weather, I’m sure I’ll enjoy myself. Time off from work is always a good time!

Sometimes, I let myself think about air travel and it boggles my mind. How does the plane lift off? Is it the sheer speed that makes it take off? The same one that sucks everyone into their seats? Is there a rocket involved? And then, how does landing work? That bump-bump-ROAR of the landing always makes me draw my breath in all at once while wringing my hands. What is that learning curve like? And then parking afterward? I can barely pull into a space with my little car (forget parallel parking). I do not understand it. It doesn’t behoove me to ponder these lingering questions when I’m a passenger on a plane, but sometimes my curiosity gets the better of me.

At other times, I can see why people back in the day wanted to fly, resulting in funny bicycle-powered contraptions from those speckled, black and white reels with tinny piano music playing in the background. As my plane dropped down from cruising altitudes, I saw glimpses of the sunset over the San Francisco hills, burnishing the passengers on the left. Everything had tinges of gold – graceful, sloping bridges, straight, shiny skyscrapers, and seemingly miniscule cars on the freeway. I held my breath on the inhale, dazzled for a few moments. I couldn’t have seen all of this as a pedestrian in the street. Sometimes, the best view is from the top.

Then there are other times when I am absolutely sure why taking a train is my favorite mode of long-distance transportation. There are lots of trains, a short waiting period, and – most applicable today – no middle seats. There were only middle seats left on my flight when I booked it, so I picked one at random because being small means that I can fit into pretty much any situation coach seats throw at me. Unfortunately, I ended up next to a heavyset French woman who decided to forgo the armrest and essentially spilled onto my seat. It took all I had to maintain some semblance of courtesy as I gently nudged her chenille sweater to the left, brought the armrest back down while she was at the restroom, and shimmied to the right to give myself as much space as I could without getting all up on the man on my other side. I’m as affectionate as the next guy (with close friends and such, ahem), but for public situations, I definitely need my personal space. When the people on both sides of me took up the whole armrest and more, the bubble got a lot smaller and the six-hour flight seemed much longer.

In any case, thank goodness for fun co-workers, a yummy (and only $2!) cocktail, and a plateful of pasta. I won’t be good for much for too long. I can feel myself fading… Darn you, jet lag…