The cloudless sky affords a rare glimpse of Washington's varied topography and farmlands. Green, brown, and yellow crop circles are laid out side by side, row by row like some oversized board game involving disks that must always touch, and then give way to miles of folded land in ameoba-like patches of brown, forest greens, and grass greens. A few minutes later, sunlight illuminates snow-dusted mountains that are almost black with trees. Debussy's Clare De Lune plays through the earphones of my laptop-sized “digiEmedia” player that Alaska Airlines now rents to its passengers, instead of the old-fashioned drop-down movie screens that everybody shares. I'm feeling content.
I cried a little to say goodbye to Patchouli. He represents the last of all that came before--no more house, horse, yard, rooms of furniture to take care of. Not even a cat for a while. No one except myself, and nothing more than a backpack's worth of goods, to be responsible for over the next three months. Glorious. Scary. Happy. Light. Dvorak's Adagio Ma Non Troppo is playing in my ears now--happier than Dubussy.
We've climbed to 30,000 feet or more. Somewhere below the cloud batting is Montana, the Dakotas, the rest of the U.S., the rest of the planet. Up here, the view is only white, white, white, pillowed and billowed for ever, a field of spun sugar beneath a pale blue sky. I want to reach out and scoop it all up in my arms like a bouquet of cotton balls.
Three tiny dots speed by--red balloons let loose into the atmosphere--followed by three more red balloons still tethered together. I think about the twenty-foot long ribbon of rainbow balloons that Richard and I sent off on our wedding day. I'd attached a laminated label, “Audrey and Richard, San Diego, April 6, 1986,” and we and the guests released it with all the loose balloons that had decorated the reception tables. I wonder if anyone from an airplane spotted them twisting and turning their way up. I wonder, sometimes, where the ribbon landed after the balloons had all popped. Had someone found the strand of broken colors and pondered over who Audrey and Richard were, how far from San Diego their balloons had traveled? Perhaps life, like marriage, is something you release into the air without ever knowing where it’ll land.
* * *
I’m almost to Boston and sitting through a two-and-a-half hour wait in Newark--first because the aircraft that we needed has been delayed from some place like Copenhagen, and then because of fog and bad weather in Boston. What should have been a 6:30p departure is turning into a 9:00p possible takeoff—we need to wait for Boston ATC to OK landings. Spending the interim time eating a banana and a hot Uno sausage pizza out of a cardboard box on my lap, following it later with a TCBY frozen yogurt, chocolate, medium size. Always sit next to a trashcan at an airport--makes lap dining much tidier.Airports are amazing places, a sort of Wood Between the Worlds like in the Magician's Nephew—a place where everyone passes through, but no one stays. Planes sit on the tarmac like fat bugs just flown in from Italy, Portugal, Sweden, France, each waiting to whisk millions of travelers to the next private world of their choosing.
People all around the lobby are on cell phones making calls to moms and grandmas--it’s Mother’s Day, the busiest phone day of the year. What must be the entire women’s La Crosse team from Northeastern University sprawls out in a circle eating salads and pizza, sharing gummy life savers, and reading books or doing crossword puzzles as they wait the same flight to Boston. They’re dressed in their team attire--black sweats with red lettering, tall socks, sports shoes. Most have their hair in a ponytail. One paces with her cell phone, making one call after another, “Hi Grandma, it’s Liz. I’m at the airport.” Ten minutes later, she comes back to announce, “It’s so cool—I just called all my grandmothers.” Time was when we each had only two grandmas to call. How many mom-dad remarriages has this 19-year-old been through, that she can refer to “all” her grandmas?
An offering of candied ginger, although declined, makes a great icebreaker to the baseball-capped gal who sits next to me, an American born of Guatemalan immigrants, Cecilia Morales. We talked and talked. She's spent much of her time traveling--every summer in Guatemala since she was a child, where her parents still have a home. She's in IT support for ADP, and was on her way to Boston for some IT training dovetailed with her passion for photography--an evening workshop with a friend in the Boston area. Cecilia has been a delight to talk with, and we spent easily over an hour swapping dreams (photojournalism for her, more travel for me), travel stories, and general amazement at how much traveling expands one’s world view.
The countries of Guatemala, Costa Rica, and Peru have crossed my radar more often of late, and I quizzed Cecilia about traveling in Guatemala. She shared many of her photos from her laptop--astonishing pics of Lake Atitlan, Mayan temples in the mist, sunsets over hillsides, market stalls ripe with rainbow fabrics and quilts, and Guatemalan children and natives. She arranges tours for friends, having been to Guatemala many times, and offered her parents' home to me if I decide to visit. She's celebrating her 30th birthday soon (happy birthday, Cecilia!) and we felt like old friends in a very short time. Keep an eye on National Geographic for a photo story about Guatemala in the years ahead...Cecilia Morales is definitely an up-and-coming talent.
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