Waiting....
The flight was delayed, and finally in the wee hours of the morning (3 am) I made my way to the airport. Blurry eyed and backpacked, I wandered the deserted hallways of YYC until I heard the sounds of wakefulness and stumbled upon the caffeine ridden lines of British Airways flight 103. Stacked with passengers who had been waylaid for days (some as much as a week), the people who were checking us in croaked out tired phrases: "I am sorry sir, this is an unknown situation to us, we do not know if the plane will actually take off. We do not know where the flight will take you. We can not answer that question - and no, we don't know where your baggage is."
The flight was to take off almost of full 8 hours before British airspace was to open. 25 minutes from arrival the pilots would judge the safety of the airspace, and offer the passengers the option of landing at Hethrow as anticipated, or redirecting to Madrid, Paris or even Athens. "If you have a place to stay here, honey, I'd take it" the sleepy stewardess told me. "I don't think you are going to make it."
35,000 feet above the rolling sea in a cloud of glass-filled ash aside, the idea of finding myself trapped in the airport in Paris with no chance of an escape for croissants was enough to send me back home. Driving back to my parents house watching the filling moon through the rear view mirror I started to think about the chance to process and rest. And yes, maybe even to plan ahead.
The last few years have been months of 'doing'. Finishing, starting, pushing and racing toward some end that I can't possibly know until I find myself screeching over the ravine of change. This is it, I thought to myself. The chance to shift the facefirst fall, the race to an end that never exists.
I could feel the silky veil of school life slipping away, leaving behind the gloss of sunsets witnessed over new places and stories that I tell myself about how I can share a glimpse of unexpected color in a busy bazaar. The weight on my shoulders from days spent squinting at my computer screen subsiding, leaving behind the ease of my trusty, dusty green bag, leaving me walking like a tortoise - home firmly on my back.
The flight was delayed, and finally in the wee hours of the morning (3 am) I made my way to the airport. Blurry eyed and backpacked, I wandered the deserted hallways of YYC until I heard the sounds of wakefulness and stumbled upon the caffeine ridden lines of British Airways flight 103. Stacked with passengers who had been waylaid for days (some as much as a week), the people who were checking us in croaked out tired phrases: "I am sorry sir, this is an unknown situation to us, we do not know if the plane will actually take off. We do not know where the flight will take you. We can not answer that question - and no, we don't know where your baggage is."
The flight was to take off almost of full 8 hours before British airspace was to open. 25 minutes from arrival the pilots would judge the safety of the airspace, and offer the passengers the option of landing at Hethrow as anticipated, or redirecting to Madrid, Paris or even Athens. "If you have a place to stay here, honey, I'd take it" the sleepy stewardess told me. "I don't think you are going to make it."
35,000 feet above the rolling sea in a cloud of glass-filled ash aside, the idea of finding myself trapped in the airport in Paris with no chance of an escape for croissants was enough to send me back home. Driving back to my parents house watching the filling moon through the rear view mirror I started to think about the chance to process and rest. And yes, maybe even to plan ahead.
The last few years have been months of 'doing'. Finishing, starting, pushing and racing toward some end that I can't possibly know until I find myself screeching over the ravine of change. This is it, I thought to myself. The chance to shift the facefirst fall, the race to an end that never exists.
I could feel the silky veil of school life slipping away, leaving behind the gloss of sunsets witnessed over new places and stories that I tell myself about how I can share a glimpse of unexpected color in a busy bazaar. The weight on my shoulders from days spent squinting at my computer screen subsiding, leaving behind the ease of my trusty, dusty green bag, leaving me walking like a tortoise - home firmly on my back.
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