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14 Hours
I forgot to list everything I'd packed. I omitted my hairbrush, my deodorant, and a stray emery board.
On the way up, I read the Iain Pears novel and the three magazines I'd brought. I left the issue of Discover with Ysabel in Colorado so she could have the robot story. I took the Jane and Glamour and ripped out the photos I thought would make interesting studies for drawings (as is my habit with magazines that have a lot of fashion ads). In Denver I bought Bizarre, The Skeptic, American History, another issue of Talk, and The Economist, and managed to read all but about half of Skeptic on the way down. I never did open the Olivia Goldsmith novel or the poor Connie Willis book that's been waiting to be read for months now. One never knows how these things will go.
Aside from the fresh magazines, the only thing I came back with that I didn't bring initially was a bundle containing three prints of Ys's mother's paintings - which are apparently really done in batik, something I didn't know at the time. It would certainly explain their unusual appearance. (To me they look like very controlled watercolors.)
I bought Powder Mill Heron and Hidden Gold (which has a different title on the site) and one of some lilies which apparently isn't listed there.
She didn't have any of columbines.
I put on too much makeup on Friday morning, the first time I've done this since starting this experiment. My fingers wanted to make a mask for my face, to take "concealer" in a far more literal sense than intended. I walked to the train so fast that I gave myself charley horses in my legs. I do that sometimes - I don't warm up and then I walk at my usual intense pace and I suffer for it. I clearly wanted the plane trip to be over with even before it had begun - Can I just sit and hide behind my makeup and have it end now?
The sunrise as the train crossed the Charles was a low orange band of horizon. The rest of the sky was dark blue, quilted with white.
Only in the world of airplane geography would you need to travel to Houston in order to get to Denver. Fourteen hours of air travel, all told, round trip. The Boston to Houston legs in both directions had half-empty planes. On the last leg, going home, there was no one else in my row. On the first leg, there was an empty seat next to me. I got exit rows at all times. I can't complain.
The Houston airport has something I've never seen before: The taxiways (that is, what the airplane drives on to get to and from the runway) cross over a major highway. You look down from your window and see cars driving past. It's a little disorienting, but then, I suppose it's disorienting to be driving along and see a jet rolling over the bridge ahead of you, too.
The Houston airport is technically "George Bush Intercontinental Airport." Having an airport named after you is a somewhat dubious honor, but then George deserves nothing less. And nothing more.
My flight stopped in Houston but did not involve a plane change - same flight number all the way. On the way to Denver, the layover was less than half an hour; I got to stay on the plane. I watched the cleaning crew, something you usually don't get to see. There were only three passengers who were ticketed all the way through. The cabin attendants and other flight crew are very brusque with the cleaning people. That annoys me.
On the way back, the layover was nearly an hour and the new crew hadn't arrived. They won't let you stay on the plane if no flight crew are present. Apparently. So I went into the Houston airport and I saw a Krispy Kreme franchise that apparently had everything but actual doughnuts. I had a hot dog instead.
All Continental signage is bilingual. When one is based in Houston, this is probably a good idea.
All Continental planes have a tape of songs that they play when the plane is on the ground and the door is open. I know it's a tape because it's very short and I have now officially heard those songs too many times.
On the way down, from Boston to Houston, there was a Texas oilman type on the row with me. He looked like Joe Don Baker. Not one of these filthy rich folks, but rather the good ol' boy with graying hair, the older man who's established a professional niche and is usually pretty happy with it. I have an uncle like this - an expansive gent, good salesman, gregarious and happy to shoot the breeze. Seals deals with handshakes - the signature on the contract is just to keep the lawyers happy.
He wasn't an oilman, of course - few are these days. In fact, the big change in Texas is the information economy; the people who look like they'd be happiest in pickup trucks inspecting the back forty are suddenly acquiring laptops and cell phones, and they're more than a little uneasy about it, expecially if they're over forty-five and have a lot of horse sense but not a lot of college learning. That was this fellow. He was in the chemicals industry, but mostly we talked about life in Boston, Houston - and computers.
It used to be that when I told people what I did for a living, they changed the subject as quickly as possible. Now, when people find out I am in computers, they want to ask me about why software is so bad, or why things don't work better.
As I say, I knew as soon as I saw him that he'd be an outgoing fellow, and sure enough, he wanted to chat. I'd have just read my magazines, but what the heck. Not until after he left the plane did it occur to me - I had my earrings, my hair was fairly femme that morning, I had makeup on - and it didn't seem to faze him in the least.
Later Ys told me about encountering a gracious truck driver who helped her when her car ran out of gas in Nevada. The driver read her as female and that was all there was to it. He took her to the station and then insisted on making sure she got back to her car all right.
That's the thing about these good ol' boys. It all depends on how they code you. If they decide that you're femme, whatever your actual gender, then more than likely they'll get all gallant on you - or pitying - and protective, and you're in good hands, even if they secretly think you're nuts.
If they decide to reject you and what you represent, they're the group most likely to put you in the hospital.
Don't guess wrong.
On the way back from Denver I sat by a woman who was a serious Beanie Baby speculator - although she honestly didn't realize it. She was lecturing her husband on the forces that cause price fluctuations and anticipating the market and why some items were more in demand than others, and she had her little checklist with what amounted to buy and sell orders, and her notes with the price history of individual dolls, and I was thinking: Y'know, if this were the stock market, she probably wouldn't dare to go near it. But it's little stuffed animals, so it's safe to comprehend and master. There is something wrong here.
Not that I go near the stock market, but I have different reasons - it's not my game. I don't buy Beanie Babies either.
Amazing view flying into Boston. Eleven o'clock at night, that rare thing: an approach from the west. We crossed right over the city; it's easy to identify where everything is from the air, if you know what you're looking for. Then we spiraled in over the dark, dark harbor waters. If you watched as the plane turned, and knew where to look amid the glow, you could see the airport lights welcoming us in.
Praying I'd make all the subway connections in time, I was disheartened to have to take a shuttle bus - some of the subway was closed for unknown reasons. The bus went through one of the auto tunnels that crosses under the harbor. I have been here six years and this was the first time I'd gone through one of these tunnels. I won't drive to the airport.
I have finally gathered enough evidence to confirm a thesis I first formed nearly ten years ago: All airports are perpetually under construction.
It's good to be home.
© Columbine
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