Posts Tagged ‘Life at the Cottage’

Across the country in twelve hours

This picture would be so much better if I got photoshop to work

So I left Ionia at 10am Sunday morning and arrived here around 9pm tonight. I think I’ve been awake for about 30 hours, but my mathematical skills slipped away a few hours ago. That means I’ve probably been over tipping, so it should make someone happy.

Turns out it was Easter Sunday yesterday- Anchorage was pretty much deserted. I hung out with Cathy and Barry for a while, wandering around, getting snacks for my trip. I went to the Barnes and Nobles (because Titlewave was closed, damn them!) and discovered that paperbacks are far more expensive than I remember them being. That’s okay, though, because the cheapest books in the Barnes and Nobles are the classics (because they don’t have to pay the copywrite?) and so I picked up Ovid’s Metamorphosis, a rambling work that was interesting until I got too sleep deprived to understand it- it’s all over the place; Ovid changes subject, I swear, in the middle of a sentence- and then I switched to The Complete Sherlock Holmes, Volume 1; an incomplete complete anthology. I have this huge thing for Conan Doyle. Eventually, I just sat there on the plane, my eyes glazed. This not being able to sleep anywhere but my bed thing is terribly annoying. Especially since it takes my brain a few days to figure out I have a new bed.

So I made yummy, yummy mandu (wonton, dumplings, whatever you want to call them) for my trip, and sauteed greens and steamed broccoli, and then bought a loaf of bread so I could have sauteed greens sandwiches and I left the container with all my food in it on the first plane! I ran all the way back to the terminal when I found out, not an easy task, considering I was carrying a backpack, a bag, a pillow, a ukulele, a sweater and a coat. When I got there I discovered that maintenance had cleaned out the plane, my lunch with it. I was forced to spend ten dollars on a falafel wrap with far too few vegetables in it. It was that or a salad and considering how messed up my belly gets when I fly I didn’t think raw salad would be a good idea.

Other ridiculous things about me flying; it takes me five minutes to go through the security thingy. Not because they’re slow; because I am. Everyone else zips through and there I am, pulling off my shoes, rummaging through my bags, going as fast as I can, enduring the glares of the people behind me. I’m like this at cash registers too; it always takes me so long to put my change and my wallet away that the cashier has already started on the next customer and they’re both standing there waiting for me to leave. How does everyone else do it?

I prefer the window seats when I fly. I love looking down on the world, both because it’s beautiful and also because I get kind of anxious about it and want to know where the plane is in relationship to everything else at any moment.

When we took off, at nine-thirty, from Anchorage, the sun was just setting, and the mountains that rise over the city were stark black and white; the bay reflected the pale blue of the sky, except where it was creased by dark waves, and the lights were coming on, a constellation below me. I kept the window open and peaked out as we flew, and even though the night grew, the cloud below us were lit, somehow, enough that I could see their swirling forms and every now and then a mountain, jagged rock cutting through the snow that covered it, piercing the blanketing clouds.

We landed in St. Paul just around sunrise, chasing the sun to speed his ascent; the ground there was mottled, dark gray and light gray, like someone had painted camo on the landscape. I still don’t know what caused it; on the next flight I gave my window seat to a young child and he got to see the cause while I enjoyed the roominess (comparative) of the aisle seat.

When we got to Detroit it was pouring rain and the clouds didn’t let up all the way to Boston; when I checked, sliding the shades up a tiny bit, the whiteness of the clouds blinded me. I spent that flight dozing and listening to the conversation of two men behind me, single serving friends. They were talking about how they had both wanted to do something (architecture and engineering respectively) but then when they got into it they realized that actually that wasn’t what they wanted. They talked about books titled things like ‘Your Inner Millionaire’ and I wondered why any one would want that much money. Maybe that was the direct influence, though, of looking through the Skymall catalogue; I think it’s enough to make anyone swear a vow of poverty.

And then I arrived in Boston; I’m always so happy to get to Boston, so happy to see the familiar city, and of course my mother, and my brother. We went to Super 88, a rather disappointing Asian market (no sarabachis! no burdock!), and from there to delicious Indian food.

The next few days are going to be hard- but fun. I can already see culture shock and Ionia-withdrawal looming. And I’m faced with the enormous task of cleaning out all my old junk, tossing some of it (it’s so hard- especially fabric scraps; I love to hold onto fabric scraps for as long as possible) and getting the room ready for us. But getting reacquainted with living here, seeing my old friends and old haunts, and trying to start my new macrobiotic regime… it’s going to be fun.

Please forgive me if any of this is addled; I am over tired. I’ll fix it tomorrow.

-Gwendolyn