"Ladies and gentleman, we are now beginning our final descent," the stewardess is telling us, her friendly mid-Western drawl sounding over-rehearsed and a little clipped. She goes on, no doubt sharing valuable reminders about tray tables, upright seat positions, and connecting flights, but I'm already back to staring out the window.
It's a red-eye flight, and morning is reluctantly beginning to seep through the clouds, flushing the sky a dull bluish-gray, occasionally illuminated by a hot white flash from one airplane light or another. I swig back the last few acidic dregs of coffee from my Styrofoam cup and watch, mesmerized, as the plane dips and wobbles. The lights below resolve themselves from hazy constellations into the neat, twinkling outlines of a city planner's map, then into highways and houses as we draw closer still, and finally, into the icy industrial lights of the landing strip as we jolt onto the ground.
All at once, the inside lights hum on, and the airplane cabin awakes from hibernation as passengers whip out cell phones, struggle with overhead duffel bags, calm nervous toddlers. I wait with genuine patience, wiping pretzel crumbs from my faux leather chair, and idly kicking the seat in front of me - then finally, spotting an aperture in the lines of departing fliers, I shrug my backpack onto my shoulders and shuffle out, waving to the stewardess. As I step over the tiny gap from the plane into the terminal, I can feel a gust of air from the tarmac below. When I was much younger, traveling with my parents, this used to terrify me. Now, flying solo - well, it still does, a little, but I'd never admit it.
Even at 6:49 a.m. (four minutes behind schedule), the terminal is alive, and I take a moment to marvel at the synchronous serendipity of so many people traveling the same routes at the same time. I love flying, love airports, even - love them with the passion that only a sheltered suburban child of the middle class can feel at the mere idea of getting out.
I don't know which I prefer, though - leaving, or coming home. Returning offers the promise of a familiar skyline, the end of a journey, a tidy resolution of turns into my freeway, my exit, my neighborhood, my house. But leaving means new climates, new streets, the thrill of rental cars and hotel rooms, and the pure exhilarating terror of being alone a few thousand miles from home.
I drag my suitcase from the clutches of baggage claim and step briskly down innumerable sets of escalators and pairs of automatic doors, until I'm finally outside. I stop and bask in the sheer alienness of the air, which is cool and more humid than I'm used to. I should put on a jacket, but I don't - instead, I catch a taxi, knowing that it will be the one constant of American travel, cracked black seats smelling vaguely of smoke and cologne and recycled air, with a driver who probably landed five minutes before I did.
The road signs are different here, though - subtly so, but they're different colors, with different fonts, spelling names appropriated from different Native American tribes, and I forget my dignity and press my nose to the dingy window to stare unabashed, thinking that there are roads like this all over the country, and noticing that the trees are different too...
The driver lets me off, and I breathe in deeply the new air, reveling in feeling far from home.