Do not laugh (if you are). It is quite a lovely place, as it turns out. I have found, actually, that many places between New York and Los Angeles, are lovely. A little too quiet for me, perhaps, in the long term, but lovely.
I was visiting a friend who some decade ago moved to Jefferson City, Missouri. It had been some time since I travelled there, probably 7 to 8 years. She suggested that we have a long girls' weekend at the Sky Ridge Retreat near Eureka Springs, Arkansas. Arkansas! you say? I had no image of that place, except that it was a Southern State during the late Civil War. And truly mid-west at tthat. Cowboy type midwest even perhaps more than California in some ways. The main point was seeing my friend, so where we caught up was not of great concern to me, and, I figured, any place I haven't been is an adventure to be savored. So off I went.
It takes a lot for me to travel. In part, I think I inherited the family gene that makes leaving the confines of the five miles surrounding my apartment a not to be readily engaged in task. As much as I might like to "see the world" more than I have, I prefer the frame of my space. I do not say this with any kind of pride. It is a fact. Add to this that the experience of travel is more of a hassle than ever it was, and it was before. I know, some of you LOVE airports, LOVE the packing, the going, the process. I just don't. I have tried to convince myself that I do, but I don't. But I suppose if it were not for the fact that I HATE to fly, these inconveniences would be tolerable. Alas, I have never liked to fly, although I have done a fair amount of it. "What are you afraid of?" people ask. Safer than a car. You can die even on the ground. Yep. Yep. I know. It's true. But when I am on the way up and up there, the thoughts that run through my head for pretty much the entire trip (the longest I have taken was 10 hours to Italy) are Freddy Krueger-esque. It isn't the dying that scares me. It is the nose downward, 30 seconds to crash and burn, what will my last thoughts and words be part. And while I may have little control over things when I am "on the ground", I have even less in a tin can squished next to a business man with no space for me to adequately panic.
I like my friend a lot. So there I was on the 3 and a half hour flight to St. Louis. And that flight was smooth as glass. I even got pictures along the way. I nearly convinced myself that yes, I can do this more.
Part of coming back was the same. And then. . ..
At about 7 or 8 p.m. LA time, a storm was approaching the city. Fortunately, I did not know about it before I got on my plane in sunny St. Louis. I might have re-considered the trip, or asked for a hitch on Air Force One (the best of the best), which happened to be in town (and delayed our flight slightly). So, it was just like clockwork. Nice take off, clear skies, watching the sun go down ahead of us, over and over as we moved West in the evening. Even with Attila the Flight Attendant frowning at us and rather ungraciously asking if we wanted anything to drink (she was a large, severe woman with glasses and a bun; I told the young Egyptian businessman next to me that she was my first school marm attendant), it was going pleasantly enough.
About forty minutes or more outside of LA, as I was looking out the window marvelling at the Big Dipper,
which were so many that even in the dark they were visible. Oh, and then there was the lightening off to the right and pretty close by my reckoning. But we passed the lightening by without incident and without the flashing of the seat belt light. So, there could be a pause in my fearful ruminations. And then. . . .The plane began to dip up and down, just a tad. And then it shook, just a tad. And the seat belt sign was on. And then the Captain in his best soothing voice said that he had asked the Flight Attendants to take their seats "for their safety". Ooopsie Daisy! The fearful ruminations begin! There was no second round of the unwieldy cart going down the aisle. I would have welcomed my school marm attendant. No. It was just too bumpy. I had images of Pope John Paul II kissing the ground as I hoped I would, if only those lights in the distance were Los Angeles. Worried that my last words would be "Oh, shit!", as I am told is a frequent final address to the world, I decided to pray the "Hail Mary" over and over, in between "Oh, man" and "Oh boys" as the plane bumped. This is not a good time to look at the wing, but of course I do and it looks like a bird actually flapping.
And yet, the man behind me was snoring. I wished I had several valiums. No more trips for me if I live!
Clearly, my friends, I made it to write again. I refrained from kissing the ground, although the urge was enormous.
Never have I been so happy to be in the bosom of my rooms. Will I venture forth again? Probably. But I will have to rev up the strength for a while.
The storm I went through last night, arrived this morning and has been with us all day. I like it better from this perspective.
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