In Transit

I’m really on the fence here, deciding between whether I love or hate traveling. The flight from Memphis to Boston wasn’t bad, excepting the fact that the plane was as big as a fanny pack (that was a little awkward, but I found some literary inspiration on the European to my left), and there were NO SNACKS. I mean, that was a three hour flight - not chump change. I almost starved to death, but after sweating through the seatbelts-fastened takeoff, I sprinted to the back of the plane to retrieve my monstrous backpack from the only place it even sort-of fit and dug out my Mom-made sandwich. After correcting my dangerously low blood sugar levels, I settled in for the remaining 2.5 hours. I read half of Blink (pretty good, appeals to my bleeding secular-progressive heart), only to be continuously interrupted by this nutso baby that kept wailing like a banshee and banging its head on the windows. Dude, chill out. But it fell asleep or was tranquilized or whatever, and upon entering the greater Boston area, I mentally confirmed that I could live here happily (all you naysayers may point out that basing such a huge life decision on a Tonka-trunk sized observation is ridiculous, but…hm, no, there’s not a whole lot I can say here, haha).

ANYWAYS, I’m writing this from the international center at Boston-Logan, and I’m hearing Italian and Arabic and I think Lingala and probably some Simmish , if I had to guess. I’m Ed-Bundy-sprawled out on this sweet recliner, stealing wi-fi and looking at some nice body of water that until about 6 months ago I would have called the Chesapeake (similar to my freshman-year discovery that artichokes are not small sea animals). And actually now that I look hard, I think that might just be a nice apartment complex lake. But it’s a nice life for now, although you might want to check back with me in nine hours when I’m foaming at the mouth and pulling out my fingernails (or more likely just sleeping, because that’s what I do).