Glancing back to photos from this time I looked poetic.
It has always helped me to leave the country. There isn’t a better remedy than seeing my puny life on the other side of the world to put things into perspective. Long distance vision will anchor on what is amuck.
I broke the bit this time by going to Central America. First leg of the trip included a white knuckle flight from San Francisco to New Orleans. The pilot announced that we were in the eye of the storm and would turn around and have another try at heading it off. The pilgrims were getting drunk in their seats with the complimented hospitality that says give ’em free booze and they won’t realize what's happening. Every time the plane pitched and hawed the clients whooped ‘yah-hoo’ as though they were riding the most exciting roller coaster ever. In sober distraught my silent mantra went on uninterrupted. We are all going to die.
For me, air travel is too close to astral flight. I spin out easily, so I ground myself at the first feeling of deliverance. When sentenced to a mandatory air transit I usually end up thinking,
“The pilot is going extremely too fast!”
No dare devil me in the sky at this time or ever.
I have thought, though, being a trapeze artist would be a real kick. It would be fun to wake up one morning and be on a flying team. But I’m certainly not willing to train for years and years to be able to do it.
Layover in the Nicaraguan wilderness.
We were waiting for the six seater to drift over the hills and collect the next group to be flown into Costa Rica. Fuselage lined both sides of the rough short rural landing strip. I remember looking hard and imagining that THAT piece was still smoking! We were several people with diverse accents. Someone casually mentioned the most beautiful beach in the world. Then each in turn told of their sanctuary. Very specific places, on the other side of the world, on the fifty-five degree parallel, south of Bombay, second sand arch on the left. People pulled out paper pads and took down obscure directions to hideaways as though they were going to travel there next week. The scene had all the flavor of a group of Dead Heads scribbling down concert notes.
Travel is a bug that, once bitten, becomes an addiction.