Thursday, August 26, 2010

When it comes to travel, I normally subscribe to one cardinal rule: stay as close to the ground as possible and situate myself a great, great distance from airplanes, even parked ones. It’s a simple guideline that leaves little room for interpretation, because I’m talking flush to the earth’s crust. Like, imagine a snake. Operating a steamroller. In a cave underground. And when this policy is violated, tossed aside like so many packets of peanuts, I may take issue. You may even know my thoughts on the matter.

It’s been nearly three glorious years since I’ve purchased air fare. Perhaps it was shrewd planning, or sheer stubbornness, or a generous stay of fortune’s hand, but I’ve never had to fly for corporate reasons. I need to recalibrate my expectations, obviously, to more realistic settings. The gravy train–a vehicle that sits at proper altitudes, by the way–had to stop sometime, but it sure was nice while it lasted.

I need to travel to Indianapolis in two weeks, and the better part of an hour tonight was spent on choosing tickets. One stop, nonstop, travel times, coach, business, every decision contributed to a slow-building headache that was further magnified by the memory of how airplanes smell. Normally I’d fly Southwest or JetBlue, but for this reservation I settled on Delta. Delta. The symbol of change. Poetic.

Gravity, to me, is more than a physical force. It’s a pact with nature that says, “We tight.” Now, breaking this pact doesn’t guarantee punishment, though the thought of potential consequences–mainly to the tune of nine-point-eight meters per second squared–is harrowing. I’m going to this conference, and then hopefully that will do it for the rest of this year. Firmament is simply one of my favorite things. Huge, huge fan.