The Flight Out

Traveling, anymore, seems more like a series of waiting in lines than any real progress away from one place and toward another. I moved my wheeled bag along as the line inched toward the ticketing desk. It was slow going, and my bag seemed heaver with each halfhearted nudge.

I slipped my cellphone out of my purse, and gazed at it a few moments, trying to decide whether to call Mom and tell her I'd be arriving alone. Sighing, I replaced the phone in my bag. It could wait... quite possibly even until my arrival in New Orleans.

I watched the other passengers, each performing the same shuffle-nudge-shuffle maneuver, and once again was struck by the resemblance of the shackled condemned, each waiting their turn at the gallows. Wasn't this supposed to be a FUN trip? When, exactly, did the fun part begin?

Abruptly I am elbowed and nearly pushed off-balance. Turning to focus my frustration on whomever had blundered into my personal space, I can't help but smile. "Oh my gawd! Did you find a place to park, or just abandon the car on the road??" Paul smiled back at me, "It's parked... sort of. Someone moved a barrier on the top level, so I followed them in. The car isn't really in a marked spot so much as it's nosed-in to a small snowbank and stuck there."

"That sounds... promising," I said, "do you suppose they'll tow it before we get back?" Paul shrugged. "No way to know. If they do, the lot that didn't honor our reservation can damn well pay the bill." Like so many other aspects of this trip, it was out of our hands, now.

The flight was uneventful, or at least I think it was. I slept the entire time, happy to retreat to a place where it wasn't snowy and there were no slow-moving lines of weary travelers.

I awakened when the plane touch down, bouncing lightly once or twice before coasting smoothly onto the runway. Squinting, looking out the window, I was immediately struck by the bright sunshine and the distinct lack of snow. I grew up in the South, enjoying some of the mildest winters anyplace, but had forgotten just how wonderful it was to see the sun in December.

The moment seemed almost too-perfect, almost scripted. If I'd had any idea how it would change my life, I might've savored it more carefully.