Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Thoughts on my way to London

Airports. In every movie and every book there is always a blurb about the beauty of them. To be invisible, a stranger among strangers. Staring at each passerby creating a unique story for each and every character you come across. Feeding the imagination in your mind about where they are coming from and where they plan on going.


The woman over there, I nod my chin to myself, she had a love affair with an artist when she was young. She was 17 and she was studying French Architecture in Paris as an exchange student. She was originally from a medium city in Nebraska and her dad died when she was eight. Her mother married a pastor named Arthur who had a squeaky voice and a passion for growing cactus in their L-shaped backyard. She fell in love with the captain of the football team and after he impregnated her first cousin on homecoming night, she left that small Nebraska town and never looked back, She went to a state school and lived in a state dormitory and filled the last spot for the second semester study abroad in Paris. Obviously, her French was shit, but it was far away from Nebraska winters and football season.

It sounds romantic that she fell in love with an artist but it was a bit dirty. Literally. He was a filthy creature. Hot water was absent in their Parisian love affair and he often smelt like sauerkraut and a cheap cabernet. His hair was oily from his lack of grooming although he often enjoyed grooming every other woman but her. At age twenty and a broken heart later, she went to a Dr to make her crooked nose straight. As if that would mend her Midwest heart. No nose can ever be straight enough for a crooked man she learned and she found a much more simple sort of love in a latin realtor named Jesus. They bought their first home on her 23rd birthday and Jesus's charming ways earned them a silver Cadillac by the time they were thirty.

Nowadays, she spends her free time combing Jesus's rich Latin hair in the middle of airports, her straight nose shining in the airy lobbies.

Often is seems that travelers wear a costume when they travel. If you’re traveling to Eastern Europe it is of great importance you dress your neck with a politic statement. Any textile from an “occupied” territory will do and it’s good to mix it with a non-traditional color. Black and white? Pink shoes will go great. Converse preferably. If you are an exceptional traveler, you will begin wearing your cargo pants months a head of time, usually when camping- so you can wear them in for the “rugged” look by the time you hit south east Asia during the “wet season.”

Pappa Saul is sitting two rows in front of me. He’s decided to give his common law wife a weekend break from their only child and has him unhappily bouncing on his right knee. His aging parents are waiting for them in London; salmon sandwiches are already on the 30 year old faded china in the tearoom. There is a batch of chocolate chip muffins in the oven, which will still be warm when they arrive home. His son, Henry is miserable and is verbally expressing that fact to the cabin audience. We take it like warriors and I can’t help but wonder if the child has a mental disorder. The miracle of the sky is that eventually, the cabin pressure changes and the child passes out in a mild stupor.

There is a rather full man in the aisle across from me. When he paid for his plane ticket he was under the impression that he also paid for the common aisle for foot space. He has successfully fit his full figured body sideways onto the seat. I respect Santa, he has managed to find comfort in any space big or small. I want to tickle his fingertips with a feather while I pretend to type. But I do not have a feather with me.


At 9/17/2009 12:05 AM, Blogger stuckinny said...

lovely post, lady. i've thought up stories for people, but never that indepth and never that eloquently =)


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