Going Home

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Abstract

and I start to sweat. Do they notice? Do they care?

I get to the gate and say hi to the agent. I get asked the same question I always do; “where are you going?” The coffee isn’t kicking in yet, so I just mumble “PDX” (Portland, Or).The countdown to departure begins, and as the clock runs down, my blood pressure goes up. The gatehouse starts to get crowded — every one of those people lowering the odds of me making this flight.For the 1001st time, I check the standby list and repeat it every 10 seconds for the next 15 minutes. Finally, my name is called, and I can exhale.I watch the ramp crew — my coworkers — finish loading the flight and push it off the gate for departure. Every flight is a race against time. Today they win. Mine is a small airport, and the taxi times are short. We do a rolling takeoff and are in the air within 5 minutes.I have a backpack full of magazines to catch up on, a fistful of articles I have saved just for this uninterrupted time, so I…immediately fall asleep. I have an almost perfect track record of doing this, yet I persist. You’d think I’d learn.

My connection is a blur of humanity, and the departure process repeats itself. Once back in the air, I manage

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to play one game of chess (spoiler alert: I lost), and listen to a few songs. The InFlight Studio has hours of programming but for my money, looking out the window is still the best in-flight entertainment.Depending on the approach, we may fly right by Mt. Hood-the mightiest of all the Cascade peaks. If it’s clear, we’ll get close enough to see skiers schussing down Timberline’s Palmer Glacier.I’m in luck. Nose pressed against the window, I see them- from here, they look like ants, and it’s amazing.

I exit the terminal and immediately smell the Pacific Northwest air. It’s hard to describe but is unmistakable. Novel and familiar all at once.I get my car and start driving- I don’t recognize anything, but know exactly where I’m going. I don’t even mind the bloodsport that is PDX traffic. Being here just feels that good.122nd… Lloyd Center… Sylvan… Each sign whizzing overhead brings me closer.Finally, my exit. I pass through what was farmland, now a strip mall Babylon. Past a small shoe company called Nike.

I get to my neighborhood and turn in. My mom is waiting in the driveway the same way she has a hundred times before.I’m home.</article></body>

You can go back again

The alarm goes off at 0400. I’m used to it, but it never gets easier. Today’s different, though I've set it by choice.

I shaved the night before to save time and am happy for the extra couple of minutes as I stumble through making coffee and eating.

I check to see if my flight is on time. It is. I’m flying space available, so I check for the 1000th time to see if there’ll be a seat. There is. So far…

It’s never a sure thing, and always a last-minute relief to get on.

Everyone tells me how fortunate I am to get to do this. They’re right, but in these moments I wonder.

The TSA line is long, but moving. It’s always hot in this line, and I start to sweat. Do they notice? Do they care? I get to the gate and say hi to the agent. I get asked the same question I always do; “where are you going?” The coffee isn’t kicking in yet, so I just mumble “PDX” (Portland, Or).

The countdown to departure begins, and as the clock runs down, my blood pressure goes up. The gatehouse starts to get crowded — every one of those people lowering the odds of me making this flight.

For the 1001st time, I check the standby list and repeat it every 10 seconds for the next 15 minutes. Finally, my name is called, and I can exhale.

I watch the ramp crew — my coworkers — finish loading the flight and push it off the gate for departure. Every flight is a race against time. Today they win. Mine is a small airport, and the taxi times are short. We do a rolling takeoff and are in the air within 5 minutes.

I have a backpack full of magazines to catch up on, a fistful of articles I have saved just for this uninterrupted time, so I…immediately fall asleep. I have an almost perfect track record of doing this, yet I persist. You’d think I’d learn. My connection is a blur of humanity, and the departure process repeats itself. Once back in the air, I manage to play one game of chess (spoiler alert: I lost), and listen to a few songs. The InFlight Studio has hours of programming but for my money, looking out the window is still the best in-flight entertainment.

Depending on the approach, we may fly right by Mt. Hood-the mightiest of all the Cascade peaks. If it’s clear, we’ll get close enough to see skiers schussing down Timberline’s Palmer Glacier.

I’m in luck. Nose pressed against the window, I see them- from here, they look like ants, and it’s amazing. I exit the terminal and immediately smell the Pacific Northwest air. It’s hard to describe but is unmistakable. Novel and familiar all at once.

I get my car and start driving- I don’t recognize anything, but know exactly where I’m going. I don’t even mind the bloodsport that is PDX traffic. Being here just feels that good.

122nd… Lloyd Center… Sylvan… Each sign whizzing overhead brings me closer.

Finally, my exit. I pass through what was farmland, now a strip mall Babylon. Past a small shoe company called Nike. I get to my neighborhood and turn in. My mom is waiting in the driveway the same way she has a hundred times before.

I’m home.

Travel — Relationships

Going Home

You can go back again