Airplane, of course. Nothing so romantic as the Great American Road trip. The car. The highway. No, nothing really mystical at all apparently about flying through the air past the burgeoning clouds at hundreds of miles an hour to rip across the country land in a few short, sleepy, pretzel-filled breaths.
I find it oddly disconcerting that I have gotten good at flying. Seems a sign of age, not wisdom. I still remember the first time I flew on my own, the first time I had flown in almost twenty years. Shaking in my boots, the five layovers from Albuquerque to Boston. Charlotte was somewhere in there, and I marveled at each stop in each airport as a mini event of culture shock. My ignorant, untraveled self gaping at the wide open windows towering hugely over the tarmac lined with white rocking chairs– which I could only assume were reserved for only the most causal of spectators. The brown skinned New Mexicans were all but gone–no Spanish to be heard–and black people seemingly everywhere. There are about five or six in the whole of Albuquerque, I think, so I am always youthfully fascinated to see that other places are not the same.
Guess that’s why we travel.