lulled to sleep by my "mark-of-the-beast" mp3 player whose name I am ashamed to print here, an impressive dose of Tylenol PM, and hopefully, an empty window seat. A girl can dream, right? Given the choice, I would choose those extra eighteen inches of seat space hands down over hunky ex-models, soccer players, or the man poring over a worn copy of Annie Dillard. Intellectual and visual stimulation are great, but space to stretch and freedom from the tell-tale hunch and twisted neck of the airline sleeper? Priceless.
(I must congratulate myself on recovering that paragraph, as my computer illiteracy meant that I erased it once before...and had to re-work it cold. My memory is failing, but times like these give me hope. Slim, but hope.)
The returning has been so easy, I feel as though I'm following a pre-arranged script. The last book I was waiting for arrived in the mail as we left the driveway; I managed to remember my ATM password; my bags are neither back-breakingly heavy nor overfilled. I have space in my carryon and and two books to keep me company, as well as a handful of sudoku pages ripped from my little sister's book, and some chex mix with all the nasty stuff removed. Why, why, why can't they sell it without the pretzels and the little cardboard sticks?
So I'm saying my prayers and trusting that my luggage won't be lost, that my visa won't turn out to be an elaborate hoax, and that safety will be the norm for the travel over the next full day. God has been good to me...
You'll hear from me when I'm on the other side of the Equator!