Strange Travels

It was a cage of pinstripes and pleats on ironed pants. The stale air accentuated the tinny sounds of wrist watches clicking as two men pecked at their keyboards and scribbled in their chevron manuals; business. Seat 18b should not have been my seat. 18a was my seat, but there I was in seat 18b, airborne to San Francisco wondering how hell I would make my way to Seattle in two weeks. I drew a line through highway 101 making checkpoints at the places I would visit and would be easy to catch rides from. I dreamed of the redwoods while I thought to myself. “What a strange way to start this trip.”

I was tired in the Denver airport nauseated by the caffeinated voice of the flight attendant enthusiastically explaining the importance of allowing first class passengers to board the aircraft first. She had a raspy voice. The sun was trapped in the rows of vacant seats in terminal B19, and the leather burnt my back as I sat down. My neck rested at the bend of the cushioned plastic and I looked to the ceiling. Two dark figures zoomed past, but slowed to a rest on the support beam just overhead. Staring down at me were two tiny birds. They had a stench of confusion, but wore a cologne of confidence as they lifted their beaks and sprung from the beam, gliding over the heads of hurried travelers on their way to a twelve o’ clock meeting, or their grandmother’s funeral. The birds had no destination. They looped elegantly over the moving carpet but returned shortly to rest in the terminal staring modestly down at me.

“Now boarding seats 10 through 20”

What a strange way to start this trip.