Flight Time by Laura J. Oliver

Last week I wrote to you on my way to the Netherlands: flower-lined canals, pristine brick streets, Delft tiles, and wooden shoes. A sixth-floor room overlooking an ivy-lined courtyard in a boutique hotel. It was too short a visit, and I have vowed to return. But wait! Now, I’m in England with a few more profundities about international travel:

I miss my dog. 

Fun fact: when Europeans first arrived in America, the First People were using dogs as work animals for dragging and pulling heavy loads, but had never seen horses. When Hernan Cortez introduced them in 1518, the Native Americans’ closest point of reference to horses was dogs, so among other things, they called horses “mysterious dogs,” “sky dogs,” and “holy dogs.” 

Sounds about right to me. 

But back to travel confessions: When the flight attendant asks me to select an entrée, I’m going to pick the worst one. When the sign says, “UK and US Passports this way,” I’m going to pick the wrong line.

I can hardly bear for someone else to carry my luggage. I’m the one who made it so heavy, so it feels unfair to watch some poor kid or older man hoisting it up the stairs six flights in historic hotels without lifts.

I leave my watch on American time so I can imagine what my family and friends are doing at home. My phone doesn’t give me this option, so I do know what time it is wherever I am. Which is not the same as being present.

I never really do figure out other countries’ currencies. I’m not there long enough to do the math. Actually, that’s a lie. I lived in New Zealand long enough; I was just math-challenged and lazy.

Ditto Celsius versus Fahrenheit. Metric versus inches and feet. 

Likewise, driving on the wrong side of the road, which I have done many times in a city of a million people. (Auckland). Because there is a God, you weren’t there to be jeopardized at every roundabout and motorway I merged onto, whispering ‘left, left, left.”  This went on for years.

If any waiter or store clerk can tell I’m American, I want them to see that I’m a nice American, with good manners and proper appreciation for other cultures. I probably overwant this. I feel like an ambassador for America everywhere I go.

I always swear I’m not going to gain weight when I travel.

Hahaha, funny joke. 

But here’s the most candid and no-doubt controversial of all these confessions. I’ve traveled to the islands of Capri, Noumea, New Caledonia, St. Thomas, Bermuda, St. Croix, St. Johns, and the Caymans. I’ve traveled to New Zealand (North and South Islands), Australia, Mexico, France, Spain, Germany, Italy, Scotland, England, Austria, and Switzerland. And although that is not the whole world or even every continent, there is a feeling that…by and large…

Seen one sandy beach, seen them all.

Seen one castle, seen them all. 

Seen one museum, seen them all. 

Seen one cathedral, sorry, seen them all,

Kidding? Yes, but also no. 

No doubt you are thinking of many excellent exceptions, and so can I, but the world is so very much the same, which surprises me. The oak trees in England look just like the oak trees at home. The marina where we moored in the Netherlands looked exactly like a creek on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. For that matter, the deserts of Utah look like the landscape of Mars.  

One of the perks of travel is that it satisfies the dictum “brain loves new.” We are the only species on the planet constantly scanning our environment for what is new. Because we are curious, inquisitive, and hungry to acquire new experiences. 

But, if you travel a lot, perhaps it is not so much what is new as what doesn’t get old.

The moment the aircraft is cleared for takeoff, and the engines power up, and the stationary, shaking rumble makes it impossible to hear, but you lean toward the person next to you with a smile, and mouth, “Here we go!” 

That involuntary excitement as the plane accelerates down the runway, faster and faster, and you wait to detect the subtle lift, that moment when the nose pulls up, the wheels leave the earth, and you are climbing, climbing, into the sky, and the world is receding beneath you, whirling away, and with a hum the landing gear tucks up under the body of the plane and you are in the hands of heaven. There’s that.

Seeing the curvature of the earth from over the wing, clouds that with very little imagination could be snow-covered mountains, or glaciers, or a snowfield upon which you could walk in the sky.

In a few weeks, you will be on your descent. You’ll drop through the clouds, hear the landing gear deploy, and that gentle bump when the plane touches down. 

If you love the life you have built and the people with whom you share it, what doesn’t get old? 

Coming home.

Laura J. Oliver is an award-winning developmental book editor and writing coach who has taught writing at the University of Maryland and St. John’s College. She is the author of The Story Within (Penguin Random House). Co-creator of The Writing Intensive at St. John’s College, she is the recipient of a Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Award in Fiction, an Anne Arundel County Arts Council Literary Arts Award winner, a two-time Glimmer Train Short Fiction finalist, and her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her website can be found here.