Taking Flight

I guess I left on a jet plane and knew when I’d be back again. Yesterday. Flying into the Twin Cities, we swooped in towards the Minneapolis skyline only to bank right towards MSP International. I loved the tourist behind me mapping the city as we flew. Telling the Middle Seat we were flying over St. Paul, when in actuality we were flying over South Minneapolis. I spotted the beach on Lake Nokomis, almost empty. I needed to be there. I landed at noon. By 1pm I was sunbathing on Nokomis sand. Waking up at 4:45am needs its reward.

I love flying. I love airports. There has never been a minute in my life where I was nervous about either. Airports are logical places of order for me. I think it has something to do with the fact that I understand how humans are supposed to read. I use this skill at an airport and I never get lost! Even small planes don’t rattle my bones. There’s nothing like being at a lower elevation on a two seater. I have a friend that was banking hours for flight school who would take me up once and a while. The very first time I flew with him, he hopped the state and picked me up in Milwaukee. I remember walking out onto the airstrip and sizing up the parked air crafts. Looking down the line… I thought “I hope it’s not that one”. It was that one. It always is that one, isn’t it? A tiny single engine Cessna right out of the 1950’s. I had the best time in that tiny plane.

It was late in life for me to actually fly in a passenger plane. I was in high school and on my way to Jamaica. A few years ago I must have been having the “flying experiences” conversation with extended family, because I started to tell a story about how I distinctly remember boarding a plane when I was very, very little. I clearly remember climbing the jetway just to take a seat and eat the complimentary peanuts. I knew, somehow, that I didn’t go anywhere. I went there to eat nuts. That was my memory, which is a strange memory to have. My mom overheard my story and told me I was lying my face off. After a lot of “na uh” and “yah huh” s were exchanged, my mother’s expression suddenly changed into recollection. Apparently, I went to a day care (or preschool?) that took me on really cool field trips. She admitted that a visit to the airport seemed familiar. Memory confirmed and valid. Now I just wonder which of my teacher’s relatives were flying into town that day.

Labor Day 2009 – 4:45am

The 15 minutes I gave myself before leaving were more than enough. My sister and I groggily climbed into her red Toyota that was parked as they do in Seattle, on the curb facing traffic. Headlight to headlight with another car. The drive to stinky Tacoma was a smelly one indeed. I kept thinking my sister’s car smelled like tuna or something else that would gross me out as much as tuna. We said our goodbyes and I headed towards the security line.

I always feel like the TSA would be grateful for my continued good service to their process. I’m always ready with their regulations, swift in line and never hold up the scanning process. Grabbing a bin, I flip my loosely tied boots off with a flick of the wrist. I pile them upside on top of the rest of my stuff. That graceful maneuver came up with disgraceful results.

Dog shit.

Dog shit that was now covering my left hand and still holding steady to the sole of my shoe. I’m glad my shoes had the ending position they did - stuff full of shit would have been a nightmare but a hand full of shit isn’t easy to deal with getting pushed along in line. Suddenly, I was an amputee with only one working arm. The other rendered useless when shat on.

Ok this is my reality… it’s 5am and there is foreign poop all over my fingers. I wasn’t prepared for a poop emergency and racked my brain for what was in my bag that could be of use. Defeated and a little frantic, I tapped an agent on her shoulder with my remaining clean hand. I wanted to ask for help. I knew that poop is a real problem and a busy working woman may actually stop to assist. But when she turned to face me, all that could come out was “Do you have any tissue? I stepped in mud”. I couldn’t admit to my poop! I’m sure my coded language was suspect. She came back immediately with Kleenex and disinfectant wipes. The poop smell was burned into my nostrils for a good hour or two. I kept getting a gross whiff and then being saddened by the realization that it was me.

I ended up paying extra for the emergency row upgrade. Which is something I don’t understand, why I should pay more to save other people’s lives? Talk about buying into heroism. But, I figured I should limit my chances of grossing out my neighbors.