CHICAGO, IL
I stand patiently in the aisle of the aircraft. For me, this is the worst part of flying: the seemingly endless amount of time that passes between the moment the wheels touch down and the moment I step out onto the jet bridge. The taxiing, the parking, the positioning of the jet bridge, the unfurling of dozens of passengers from the sardine arrangement. I am absolutely one of those passengers who quietly unbuckles her seatbelt the second the plane stops moving, regardless of any illuminated fasten seatbelt sign. Finally the door opens and the plane is filled with the thick hot air of a Chicago night. A long pause, and then finally the line of passengers in the aisle clears. The front of the plane empties, but somewhere in the middle, a few struggling passengers hold the rest of us hostage. I watch as first a woman, and then the man in the row next to her, struggle to extricate their bags from under the seat and from the overhead compartment. The whole process is a little too awkward. She struggles with the weight of her bag over her head, and the shoulder strap of his bag seems to be stuck on an armrest. Their attempts to hurry are only making things worse, but finally they seem to have all of their belongings and make their way down the aisle, bags bumping into the seats. Others behind them complete the same awkward ballet of shimmying out of the tiny seat rows, yanking bags and purses and briefcases out from where they've been stowed. My insides sort of want to leap over the seats and gather all of their things and nudge them on their way, but only in the most helpful sort of way. But my outsides wear a polite but slightly tired smile and I stand with my backpack hanging from my shoulders, hands clasped in front of me. How many times have I done this? A hundred? A thousand? It IS an awkward process, wiggling out of the seat, and gently unweaving the web of straps in the overhead compartment to free one's bag, and then gently sliding the piece out of place and down into the 10" of available space without bumping into any of the passengers who stand so close as to feel your breath on their skin; to gather tote bags and pillows and children and purses and courier bags that have all been tucked into the tiny space behind the seats and who are tangled up in armrests and tray tables. It is one of a million rhythms that I have somehow ingrained in my muscle memory during a lifetime of travel. There is something so loathsome about airports and airplanes and the stale air and the overpriced food and the weather delays and the mechanical failures and yet somehow there is something so overwhelmingly familiar about all of it for me. Air travel wraps me in a weighty cloak that is uncomfortable and unpleasant but somehow bizarrely familiar and comfortable too. Finally I stumble into the fluorescent terminal, nearly deserted at this late hour, thanks to an interminable delay in Dallas. I fight back a yawn, and head towards the baggage claim and my waiting ride.
