London Notes: from the journal.
ACT ONE:
I40 south to the Sunport. Eighty miles per hour. The silver Rav punching a hole through a prairie beige dust storm. Los Alamos National Laboratory in the distance, sprinkled like salt across the upper edges of the Pajarito Plateau. Busy bees, working to remain The Destroyer of Worlds.
Poor little Albuquerque. Quiet no more. Discovered by the motion picture type. Those who don’t wait or want for anything. Our “cuteness” an attraction for a season or two, but a broken window, a stolen heirloom, a trailhead rental car violation, quickly results in a full retreat to the valley or the hills or the blvd. Cuteness replaced with harshness and the realization you aren’t wanted here. Your money, yes. You, no.
Loud talkers and wide open, uncovered coughers fill the terminal.
Missed flight opportunists on blow up beds, backs against the window, sleeping off a miscue or bad airline luck, and yet somehow the entire thing still works. Plane after plane arcing up and out into the airspace. Radar pinging. Rising and falling like the barometer. Delayed, and delayed again, but expected now. “This flight is overbooked,” she says. “Is your schedule flexible?”
The Boeing Triple Seven is old. I know before liftoff the entertainment system is broken. A seasoned crew, nervous looks and the luck of a nine-hour flight. Were it twelve or fifteen, they might have a mutiny on their hands. Worn flaps, storage that won’t stay stored, streaks of oil or lubricant paint the wings like racing stripes. Hot then cold then hot again.
Ernesto is no longer with us. (I learn via text.) And we are lesser now. A battleax of a man. Enormous hands. Draped in the flag, his service remembered, honored, and passed on. Sons at the edges. Memories flitter. Zodiacs, Mag Bay, running upriver, throttle pegged. Flat tires, Mexico frictions. Adventure. Ernesto. Ernesto Vive. Siempre. (The first time I met Ernesto he was underneath a VW van replacing the axles by himself and was in his late 70s. My beast mode was his Tuesday morning. He will be missed.)
Sun flickers through a raise window shade. Day to night as the coastline fades beneath us. Out there lives the job, experience, responsibility, and the opportunity to see the world for what it truly is. A wonderful, confusing place. A chance to run your finger along the railing or see a backlit branch near the waterfront as inexhaustible things murmur like the Earth’s heartbeat.
PS: I guessed the entertainment system was broken based on the faces of the flight crew before takeoff. I knew something was wrong and figured that was the most likely culprit. (They still acted shocked when it didn’t come on.) Also, our special meal was nowhere to be found, which meant were heard the most terrifying words you can hear on a flight. “Chicken or pasta?” But the fact we have an option or order a special meal still astounds me.
ACT TWO:
The flight attendant’s pants are torn but held together with safety pins. Foreshadowing?
Sleep according to my Garmin. 2 Hours, 29 Minutes. Quality: Poor. REM Sleep: 0 minutes.
It’s easy. That’s all it took.
Dirt to pavement, parking slot row M. Shuttle, walk, scan, board, de-board, board, and file off single file. Scan again, purpose of your visit. I don’t know, observe, and report. Jellied eels and the palace. Pavement, black doors, trains, expect delays. No stamp. Never. Not anymore. Ink and paper? Replaced. Biometric bloodshot now. In the system and what a system they have here.
It’s easy. 5,000 miles. No masts or sails or scurvy. And no crabs. Certainly, no crabs. Anyone can do it. No scrolls or official permission from the king or the queen or the county tax assessor.
Just a bit cramped and congested. Neck and back pain, screaming children, flavorless food, scratchy, white pillows. And not a single person wants to be here. The destination, yes. The journey, not on your life.
Endure. It’s easy. That’s all it takes.
The tapestry of green down below. “Well, I’ve got some bad news,” he says. “The airport in London has some issues and there are a lot of planes trying to land.” “Looks like we are headed to a holding pattern.” Is this a Brexit pattern or just a pattern, pattern? A figure eight?
Just get in the fuselage in one spot and get out in another. It’s that easy. Someone works on a spreadsheet. A pretzel wrapper hides under a seat. The crew looks like they never want to see any of us ever again. The tea tastes like tea.
Rubber and smoke and reverse thrust and relief. It’s okay. You made it.
Comments 17
Thanks, Dan. I don’t regret not travelling at all …
Me too, and a recent non adventure to confirm that. Part of a group exhibit of NC photographers at an artist cooperative in Red Hook, Brooklyn. Flights are really cheap to Laguardia right now, hotels in the area are $300. plus before taxes, and then told by the curator, well there really isn’t an easy way to get to Red Hook from Laguardia. Staying home.
Author
That’s cheap for a NY hotel. I never seem to find a good NYC hotel.
Author
Ha. It can be…interesting..
Road ahead is as flat as a Waffle House biscuit….yellow gas pump flashing on my dash. Dim light up ahead…could be a UFO or hopefully a service station. It’s getting larger all time. Get there and it closed tighter than a mag on a Glock 47. I’ll show them so I piss behind the dumpster around back only to catch the very end of the most beautiful sunset! Back at the truck I drain what gas I have out of the KTM on my trailer and put it in the truck. Rolling on to the next oasis that I hope we hit soon. Good luck Milnor….we’re rooting for you.
Author
Oh…I see where this is going. I think this might have just started something new…..
Dawn Chorus under a contrail slashed Banksy sky the de-tuned colour of a Gibsonian warning. Returning swifts (fewer than last year, but, summer truly has arrived!) screaming under this canvas, aerial gymnastics; nature’s Spitfires. Wood pigeons calling ‘it’s good enough, it’s good enough’. So too the zombie politicos skull fucking the nation.
Steaming mug of good black coffee and The Dawn of Everything by the Davids Graeber and Wengrow as we barrel roll slowly into the warm embrace of mother sun some say doesn’t exist. Life is grand.
Welcome back to ole Blighty! Looking like it’s going to be uncharacteristically glorious for you.
Author
Nice work Greg. I like where this is headed. I see a writing collaboration starting. Everyone invited.
I miss the being there.. but not the traveling there. Nice piece of writing Milnor.
Spearing through 1000 feet, the scattered windbreaks appear on the field of snow like an advancing armada to the coastline of the tree-lined river. “I wonder how I could capture that on film without chartering a helicopter?” crosses my mind while I realize that the gentleman I am forced into rubbing shoulders with is actually talking to me. A decent conversation minimizes the indignities of post-Covid coach.
Author
I like it. I think a group writing collaboration is in the works.
It may be “cheap” for New York, but not cheap at my income level.
Author
London is incredible. Not cheap.
An old plane,
Remembering trips,
Too noisy flaps.
Author
This plane needed to be retired.
Danielsan,
Your self-awareness is a great attribute. Most will never realize, there are many runways that are not long enough for certain aircraft to land without “reverse thrusters.”
Author
I just like saying it. Same for “Chewy, get us out of here.”