A giant, overwhelming heart pang sneaks up on me though, an initial small rumbling in my stomach that becomes a full blown internal quake as I realize it’s implications- I erased all my pictures from the last four years. At first, I figure other people have pictures of me from the last four years, so whatever. But then I start recalling all the little things I’d shot, some things that have already started slipping from my memory. I’m really torn about losing all the stealth, forbidden pictures I snapped in museums across the world of pieces of art I didn’t want to forget. All that brilliant street art in Buenos Aires, the foggy Chilean antiquities, the dramatic galleries painted up blood red and littered with gold frames filled with shipwrecks and disinterested ladies. I’m going to miss all those pieces of art that, for inexplicable reasons, appealed to my soul in some unspoken way.
So, the pictures will begin anew. But before getting to that, I have to get out of the U.S. My schedule to do so includes running around getting last second supplies and staying up all night doing preparation things that I don’t even remember now. I get distracted in Walgreens and wonder what the clearance of Magnum condoms says about the men in the Crocus Hill neighborhood.
I make it to my sister’s high school graduation at 2 PM (yay Beryl!), from which I jump into a cab to the airport. I have a pretty hilarious ride with a cabbie that is pretty sure I am going on the road with a skinhead band since we’re starting the tour in Germany. I have a laugh that turns into a shiver, as the idea pops into my head that this guy might have been a convert to anti-rational thinking after watching ICP’s “Miracles” video and actually believe that Germany is filled to the brim with skinheads. The thought fades and here I am at the airport, whisking through the lines, and I’m at the gate in less than 20 minutes. Hell yeah hardly used Terminal 2.
So my flight to London is on SunCountry’s inaugural flight to London. That’s right, the rickety (at least image-wise) regional airline’s first ever flight to London. I don’t have any fear of flying, so it’s just kind of hilariously exciting to me (if something mechanically grave or weather terrible is going to happen on my plane, then so be it. What am I really going to do about it? Rally up my inner John McClane and jump out of the airplane at the very last second, using the airplane door I popped off first as a parachute and then as a sled as I slide down the snowy Himalayas to safety?) . The gate is done up in pictures of the Queen and the Beatles, there’s tea to be had, and a crown and diamonds that you can wear for a photo op. As some women try on the diamonds, there’s murmurings to their boyfriends “If you really loved me you’d…” Pathetic.
The cookies are good though.
I wander onto the plane ready to pass out. But first I’m greeted by a little gift bag filled with an Elton John BlueRay, a suduko book, a passport protector, and a blue bag. I’m so excited by the booty, it takes me an extra three minutes to fall asleep for the journey. Seriously, couldn’t they have just made my ticket 10 dollars cheaper and just not given me this stuff?
Somewhere down the line, the plane has a stop in Gander, Canada, which I suppose I get off the plane for, but my mind never quite grasps what’s going on. There’s a bit of a dreamy feeling as I walk down the tube from the plane to the tarmac. As Canada’s brisk cold bites my cheeks, I feel like zombies should be coming out of the dark at the edge of the runway, and we need to fight them off before the plane will start up again, 30 Days of Night style. As I said, I didn’t quite wake up. If it wasn’t for a nice girl, I probably would still be asleep on a bench in the Gander airport.
And back to sleep.
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