airplane thoughts

on being so back or so gone

When the plane landed in Lima the crowd cheered loudly. I hid a smile and pretended I didn’t find it wholesome. Humans unashamed of cringe might be my favorite species. The smile I was holding was erased as soon as I saw everyone around me getting up from their seat and lined up in the middle of the aisle. People who get up from their seat and start unloading their bags from the cabins before the rows in front of them have a chance to get off the plane might be my least favorite species.

I wait for my turn, like the civilized person I am, and I make my way down one of those tunnels they put in front of planes doors that take you inside of the airport. I enter the first bathroom I see and the mirror in front of me shows me the face of someone who hasn’t slept for more than five hours in the last four days. “I sleep when I’m dead” started to sound silly now thinking I had another plane to catch plus a two-and-a-half-hour layover.

The Lima airport makes international travelers pay a tax of 11.86 USD just for having a connecting flight. Jackasses. I was rude to the security guy who told me I couldn’t go pass it without a ticket that showed I had paid the tax. I had already lost a new full bottle of sunscreen at the Asuncion airport and I was on my last nerves. Bloated, sleep deprived and pissed off about using money I could’ve spent on food I made my way to the nearest duty free and tried on designer sunglasses I was not going to buy. I ignored the salesperson who looked at my hoodie and white linen pants up and down and stared at myself on the little mirror each stand had. There were two new pimples on my cheek.

Despite being highly secured places, airports feel like lawless land. It might be the only place, besides funerals, where public crying is socially acceptable. Where sleeping on benches and floors is not looked down upon. Where coffee feels good even when it’s bad. It’s also a place where everyone has a common goal: getting somewhere.

When I get bored of sunglasses, I find the least expensive coffee shop I can (that isn’t Starbucks) and get myself a parfait, a chocolate croissant and an americano. I eat the parfait while I try to listen to the conversation the couple next to me is having. They’re complaining about work. Boring. I try to find something more interesting but there’s no one peaking my interest, so I open my laptop and start filling out a survey. I do this until it’s time for me to board my flight.

My next seat is 23B. The middle seat is my least favorite seat to be in. The woman next to me scribbles down on a notebook fervently. She only stops to eat and to rest her eyes for five minutes before jumping right into it again, as if her mind wouldn’t allow her to drop the pen for longer than mere minutes. I wonder what is making her so rattled. I want to peep at her notebook, but it feels disrespectful, so I don’t. I wouldn’t want other people to look at my notes. The man next to me on the other side scrolls the airline website for what feels like forever. He doesn’t seem to decide on a movie or a show. He ends up buying Wi-Fi for 2 USD an hour. He scrolls on Facebook for a while. I play on “Bury Me at Makeout Creek” by Mitski, and try to fall sleep for the tenth time today. Instead, I think of the woman next to me. How she has written for almost three hours uninterrupted. By hand. I wish I knew her name. She has one of those faces you can tell have lived many lives.

I’ve been hoping for a writing mentor. An older woman who gives me notes and pushes me to do better. I wonder if she ever got a mentor. I wonder if what she wrote is going to be read by anyone. Or if she is not the type to sell her thoughts. Underneath my curiosity there’s jealousy. I haven’t written in weeks. I haven’t even tried. I was too busy. Or too bored. I had nothing interesting to say. I didn’t want to force myself to look at a blank page. It has never been my thing. When it doesn’t come to me easily, I just let it be until it calls me again.

A couple of weeks ago I asked a tarot reader what path I should take with my writing. He said a word that stuck with me: flow. He said I should never force it. I’ve been thinking about that lately. About letting things come to you. About being open for when something is trying to reach you. I’ve seen how this site becomes a place for nothingburger’s. I guess I rather be absent than here out of obligation. I don’t think anyone who reads me wants that from me either way. Even if that means they’ll get less from me. Is it a bit narcissistic to think anyone has missed my writing? Maybe it’s just hope.

I always thought of myself as a pessimist, but lately I’ve been trusting the universe has my back and that it will always lead to me where I need to be. Right now I want to be here.