Scattered, Incoherent, Sleep-Deprived Musings from 37,000 Feet and Below

I'm not afraid of flying, so I've found. The moment of takeoff left my mouth hanging limp, in a good way.

The day started in a calm: bags were packed, things shuffled around, shower taken, trunk loaded, car door opened, seatbelt buckled.... No sleep in the car, of course, despite only three-ish hours of sleep the night before. Too many thoughts, worries, regrets, and friends' faces whirring in too small a space. Excitement, too, but hidden--partly by thoughts of uncertainty, partly by thoughts of those I'd miss.

Exterior calm and interior panic took over. It's almost worrying that I wasn't more worried. Goodbyes were said at the security check, and then I stepped from earth to sky, comfort to disquiet, here to there.

Looking down on clouds is always cool. I think I may have just seen a crop circle. In my opinion, wings should not wobble or waver. At all. They do.

I am unfocused and rambling, and choose to see this as a good thing.

I am in the window seat atop the right wing. If it flies off, I'll be the first to know. I'll keep you posted.

We just passed over the Great Salt Lake. It doesn't look pleasant. Water shouldn't be reddish yellowish opacity. Isn't that in Utah? Wow, are we already over Utah?

If I stare straight ahead, it feels like the plane is drifting down and to the right. It's a bit upsetting. Planes should be equipped with "oh jesus" bars.

Tucked in behind everything I see are the faces of those I will miss tremendously. Sometimes, for minutes on end, they are all I see.

The wing is still attatched. Out the window, I can see the plane's right side "boost pumps" (so says the label). A boost pump sounds important. So far they are still there. I'll keep you posted.

Black mountains rippling around a muddy-brown river is a cool effect.

I am able to sleep on planes, I found as I woke up about a half hour out of Dallas/Fort Worth (D/FW). D/FW is enormous. And they have iPod vending machines. And giant metal crystaline statues with a tunnel through it that you can walk through. And CNN playing on TVs you can't really hear. And shopping, shopping, shopping galore! And an amazing sunset backlighting hulking metal flying machines.

Takeoff at night is dazzling. The lights have been described in books, related by people, and shown in movies, but it's different when you take off on the second flight of your life, leaving the only country you've ever known. The lights mean more than the eyes can interpret then, though I can't say what.

The Gulf of Mexico stretches below us, or at least that's what the pilot said. Nothing but a lonely light at the end of the wing, a vague reflection in the window and blackness as far as I can tell. Just after takeoff I was tired and thought I'd fall asleep immediately. Little sleep and already 14 and a half hours of travel will do that. Now I am wide awake. The world outside fading to black as a heavy, unwieldy tin can switches hemispheres will do that. A bit of an adrenaline rush mixed with a wild imagination makes for an uncommon cocktail. Writing is coming easy.

The food is served. One cannot resist the in flight lasagna, salad, roll, cup o' water, and "oatmeal chewie." Not after hearing everything one inevitably hears about airline food...
-I'm not sure whether the roll had any natural ingredients.
-The salad was... salad. It's hard to mess up salad.
-The water had a lid like yogurt. Weird.
-The lasagna tasted... about like you'd expect airline lasagna to taste: nothing like anything.
-The oatmeal chewie is for later.

In flight movie: Leatherheads. I want to see it, but not now.

Being out over a body of water, it's comforting to know that the seat cushion floats. As does the life vest stowed away somewhere nearby. I suppose I missed that part of the safety lecture. At least I have a seat cushion.

9 pm in Corvallis. Midnight in Chile. We're scheduled to drop from the sky by 7:30 am in Santiago. Then a 4 and a half hour bus ride to Chillán.

There is no one in the seat next to me this time. I will be able to get up, stretch, move around, maybe even find the bathroom. I am grateful.

The lights went out and I refrained from lighting the one above my head. Lights appeared below; the world still exists--or at least the Yucatan peninsula. It's really amazing. Huge swaths or night broken by small glittering imperfections, and misty wisps of cloud. It's like an alien landscape, completely strange and unrecognizable.

Lightning visible in the east. Huge impossible cloudscapes illuminated in short, electric busts. Dizzying branches of light, curving and carving and dancing through the halls of Olympus. The gods must surely be at war.

Twilit rainbow dawn over the Pacific Ocean, and I can see the mountainous western coast of South America, Chile in fact, the Andes, back-lit by deep red, fading to pale yellow and green, to blue, and back to the familiar black of the night sky.

The sun is fully awake, and we are striding over and through great billowing clouds. Chile is a pale outline barely seen through the clouds. One hour until we reach Santiago, more or less.

The coastline is visible, emerging from the haze. It is now roughly 4am in Corvallis; 7am in Santiago. And now the pen must rest.

Hasta Luego Mi Vida Anterior. Bon Voyage. Todo Está Nuevo.