The mid-morning top-deck drop off. Excitement looms.
Leaving the post-snow, deep February cold of the early-morning curb, entering warm airport. Swaths of people cross our path, toting bags, checking in. Energy, pace and stress level picking up, heading to security checkpoint along with the masses.
The dance of piano keys, live music greeting on other side. Soothing for a busy airport, sending travelers to other cities, states and countries.
Pianist hands off to cellist further down the concourse. Local artist playing hand-made small cello he calls his travel version. Travelers dash by, heeding gate calls. As we plop our bags, look for outlets and settle into our boarding area we listen to his deep, soulful sounds filling the air, his bow mesmerizing as it effortlessly glides across the cello’s strings.
People filtering into gate waiting area, some with kids, retirees. All gathering in this spot – this waiting area – all of us with hopes of leaving dreary cloud-covered Portland for the sun-filled Big Island in the Hawaiian Island chain.
Hundreds of disparate lives coming together to be squeezed in a pressurized tube that will take us more than five hours and two thousand miles over the Pacific Ocean to our island destination – for sun, beach, R&R, away from to-do lists and daily responsibilities. To wear shorts, tank tops and sandals. Swimsuits and snorkel gear. For time to slow down. To wander. To explore.
Pilot strolls by, coffee in hand, heading to settle into cockpit, complete flight check. Woman walks by, tiny, shaggy black dog head popping out of dark bag.
Passenger list filled, we board and take our spaces for the next five hours, me in my favorite window seat with my partner taking it for the team in the middle seat. We hope for a nice seatmate – one that is friendly but doesn’t chat too much or take over the conversation. It can be a long, exhausting flight with the latter.
We luck out and become part of a female threesome, and post wheels-up share our travels and stories of places we’ve loved visiting. We even coordinate our bathroom run, all filtering back into our respective seats and high-fiving at the efficiency.
30,000 feet up
There’s something about being 30,000 feet in the air that soothes me, plucks me out of my daily life to a place I can think, imagine. There’s less worry of daily life stress up here – it’s like we’re suspended above the clouds, above and beyond time.
I feel lucky to live I a time in history when an airplane is like a bus in the sky, taking you to the next city, the next state or other countries. Your cash is your ticket to the world, to experiences and discovery. New places, different languages and cultures.
This is what we work for, to be up here transiting at hundreds of miles per hour to a destination far from our home.
It rained all night and into the morning as we donned our requisition where’s Waldo-striped long underwear and fleece, pulled over bright yellow rain jackets and tightened hoodies against the pelting rain.
