Jetting

It is 8:06 pm, New Zealand time, somewhere towards the beginning of our journey. Somewhere behind me on the plane, a baby is screaming. I am in the bulkhead seat in premier economy. The plane is very full, the fullest I have traveled on across the Pacific. The best news about the premier economy is the plug next to me. We took off into the night sky an hour ago, the full moon high in the sky. I have seen five full moons here now, and it seems strange to be going home as I watch this one. Home. Going back to the US, where I don’t actually live. I am thinking about what this trip means to me, thinking about how I mean to it.

It is 3:57 pm, New Zealand time and almost midnight in Boston, but I am still in San Francisco, where I landed nearly 9 hours ago. My scheduled flight would have landed by now, and I’d be at Joan’s house, tucked into a cozy bed. Instead, I’m here in the bright lights of the San Francisco airport. My hands are shaking slightly from lack of sleep and I keep feeling earthquakes, which I assume are the big jets taking off and landing and shaking the building. I landed after a decent flight, zipped through immigration, ground to a halt at the baggage claim waiting for Rob’s lovely suitcase (filled with my things) to finally creep off the plane. Then a zip through customs (where I had to fill out the “visitor to the US” section for the first time) and to the place to recheck my bag which they wouldn’t take because there was no plane to put it on. And, because it was the last flight into Boston Tuesday night, I have to take the first flight into Boston on Wednesday morning. This means another red eye, only this one on a crappy American airline with squashed seats and no service. Alas.

This is not me complaining. This is actually an interesting, surreal experience. I was scheduled to be on the ground in Boston by now, but instead am here. I have had a day that could only happen in transit—a day when it doesn’t matter that my teeth aren’t brushed or that I haven’t showered or that I slept in my clothes. I am uninhibited, feel invisible. There is something lovely about that, something special and magical. I am wearing the invisibility cloak of too many hours travel and too many hours to come.

1:33 am Thursday NZ time; 9:33 am Wednesday Boston time

I am here at Joan’s. I am a time traveler and I am crossing time now. I have left Wellington on Tuesday afternoon and arrived in San Francisco on Tuesday morning, after 14 hours in the air and 2 hours in Aukland. I have left San Francisco at 11:30 pm and arrived at 8 am after 5 hours in the air. I have lived in summer (NZ), spring (SF) and winter (Boston) all on two calendar days.

I am jetlagged and bleary. There was a moment last night (my watch said 3, but 3 where?) when I panicked. My arms and legs were asleep and every muscle in my body hurt and I thought I HAVE TO GET OFF OF THIS PLANE RIGHT NOW AND LIE DOWN FLAT ON THE GROUND. Then I did deep breathing and got myself back together and back to sleep. And I survived it. I am here. I have discovered that one of the most wonderful things in the whole world is brushing your teeth.

And I have been seen by someone. I am not invisible. Joan is here, her apartment is here, and I am sitting on a bed I have sat on before and am talking to a woman I adore in the cold greyness of a Boston winter’s morning. It may snow. I got out of the terminal at Logan and thought, “Ah, it’s good to be home.” I may feel that many times over the course of this trip. I will have to think a lot about what “home” means.