A thunderstorm is building outside. The sky is darkening. Winds are rising. Thunder grows louder and more prolonged. I am excited.
I am dismayed.
I spent yesterday sealed in travel mode, protected from nature by metal and glass.
Lovely flight from Medford to Denver. I was the recipient of the aircraft's 'seat that won't recline', given to one lucky traveller each flight. Denver was 31 in the rising dusk, spots of snow and ice belittling a dulled brown landscape, with flatness that recalled learning about planes and geometry, when we landed.
Inside the airport is a contrasts of eras. Big and modern but constructed before the mobile age. People searched for places to recharge their gear. I was such a searcher, having eaten my battery's life while writing on the flight. There are recharge stations with the most uncomfortable plastic lidded stools to sit on that can be devised. These were apparently spaces where pay phones once existed and were redesigned solely to repower phones, and not really to type or surf. I tried but couldn't find a comfortable or comfortable. A woman arrived and settled beside me, hammering out emails. She was shorter. And that was it: these spaces fit shorter people. I'm 5'8" but I'm too tall for these stations to use comfortably.
Ah, but much better flight on to San Antonio, about 2/3 full, big ol' Airbus A320. Brought to mind that we're in another era of air travel. When I first began travelling, in the 1970s, flight attendants came around with pillows, blankets and headphones. Next was beverage service, then snack or meal service, depending on the flight. Now you're on your own for those things.
Had a beer on the flight, something of the American standard tinned can mass market offerings. Bleah.
United Airlines did offer video services, showing "The Big Bang Theory" and "The Mentalist".
Never seen the "The Mentalist" before. Wasn't impressed as the police checked out the modern scene and wandered around, and one detective came in, waving a feather withdrawn from the victim's mouth.
Wow, that would seem like evidence from my television and movie forensics. Shouldn't it be treated more carefully?
One detective thinks it could be a gang. He doesn't seem to have reason for this, it's just a guess, and no discussion about why he's making that guess, except to add something to the show. No, Patrick Jane - the mentalist, I guess - replies, it's from a dress, and he discovers a hidden room that no one else suspected, and in there is a dress covered with the same kind of feathers. Okay, that's weakly plausible that all these experienced police officers wandering around failed to realize a secret room exists, but it's also the manner in which this room is revealed, with the detectives standing like mannequins, expressionless as he immediately figures it out and finds the room.
Then he comes out with bloody scissors, waving them and grinning. "The murder weapon."
The show was not unenjoyable, other than the dialogue, plotting, plastic acting and store front characters. Most actors were a pretty person.
Dad and my half-brother met me at the airport at midnight when I arrived. Rain was falling. Haven't seen my half-brother since 1990. What's that, twenty-one years? He's older looker. Hah!
He's much older looking. Last time I saw him, he was a teenager in high school. Now he's a married college graduate with a couple kids, managing a furniture store, and his hair, which was long, is shaved short. He's gained weight - so have Dad and I - but I see both his mother and his father in his face, and I recognize that face from his youth.
I made the hotel at 1, was in bed by 2, asleep a little later. This is a Sheraton Four Points, a modern hotel, sterile despite the warm brown woods. It's just so linear and structured, more like an office with a bed in the middle of the room than anything.
As I type that and look around at the room, it reminds me of military quarters.
Guess my travels have spoiled me.
The worst aspect of the room for me is that the window doesn't open. I'm sealed in. I can't open it and take in the air. I must depened on a fan to deliver that to me. I can't smell the rain or the wet, warm cement, tar and grass. I can't hear the rain's drum solo or the wind playing on the trees.
Have to dress and get out of here, find a place where I can do that. Smelling those things help me remember that I'm a human.
Causes Michael Seidel Supports
Kiva, Women's International League for Peace and Freedom, Propublica.org, Doctors Without Borders, GreaterGood.com