In the last twenty-three months, I’ve been on a plane only one time, and that was to make a trip to the other end of the state, to see a specialist.
It was as non-glamorous as it sounds.
I am not a good traveler. I distrust airports, pilots, my fellow-passengers, airport food, airline meals, and the empty air between myself and solid ground. I am usually freezing on planes, or too hot. I loathe airplane seat belts and it bugs me to use those teeny-weeny airplane bathrooms. Short flights are a trial, but I hate long flights the very worst, and always ponder the ridiculousness of hurtling across space in a sealed, airless tube when I’ve been on a plane too long – usually at the ten hour mark.
I am one of those people with the urge to clap when I land.
Yes, I am a dreadful traveler, and yet, I am so grateful for travel, and when I can hie my way to Scotland to meet my new book nephew, or see my friends in the Netherlands again, I will be overjoyed. I look forward to Spain and to Germany, to poking around the Yucatan, and finally seeing the Great Lakes in person.
Anchored only by the ‘t’
My inhibitions ravel.
“Out” is where I want to be,
My back wheels spitting gravel.
A broad horizon is the goal
To burst out of my pigeonhole.
You’re wondering where I will go?
When I get back, I’ll let you know…